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THE  COUNTY  ROAD 


THE 

COUNTY   ROAD 

BY 

ALICE  BROWN 


V*^  or  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

d)e  Wotv^itit  pre^^,  Cambntige 
1906 


REESE 


COPYRIGHT  1906  BY  ALXCB  BROWN 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  October  iqab 


CONTENTS 

A  Day  Off        .        . 1 

Old  Immortality 23 

Bachelor's  Fancy 47 

The  Cave  of  Adullam 73 

A  Winter's  Courting 97 

Rosy  Balm 123 

A  Sea  Change 147 

The  Tree  of  a  Thousand  Leaves  ....        191 

The  Pilgrim  Chamber 217 

The  Twisted  Tree 247 

The  Looking-Glass 269 

A  Hermit  in  Arcadia 295 

A  Crown  of  Gold 323 


A  DAY  OFF 


Of^   THE      "       \ 

UNIVEPf^iTV    ■ 

or 


A   DAY  OFF 

Abigail  Bennet  stood  by  the  kitchen  table, 
her  mixing-bowl  before  her.  She  hummed  a 
little  under  her  breath,  as  she  paused,  con- 
sidering what  to  make.  There  were  eggs  on 
the  table,  in  a  round  comfortable  basket  that 
had  held  successions  of  eggs  for  twenty  years. 
There  were  flour  and  sugar  in  their  respective 
boxes,  and  some  butter  in  a  plate.  It  was  an 
April  day,  and  Abigail's  eyes  wandered  to  the 
kitchen  window  at  the  sound  of  a  bird-call 
from  the  elm.  A  smile  lighted  her  worn  face. 
The  winter  had  been  a  hard  one,  and  now  it 
was  over  and  gone.  This,  also,  was  a  moment's 
peace  in  the  midst  of  the  day.  Her  husband  was 
comfortably  napping  in  the  front  room.  He  had 
broken  his  arm  in  midwinter,  and  that  had  tem- 
porarily disarranged  the  habit  of  his  life.  Abi- 
gail had  not  owned  it,  even  to  her  most  secret 
self,  but  she  was  tired  of  his  innocent  supervision 
of  indoor  affairs,  the  natural  product  of  his  idle- 
ness. Jonathan  was  a  born  meddler.  He  inter- 
fered for  the  general  good,  and  usually  it  did  no 
harm;  for  he  was  accustomed,  in  his  best  estate, 
to  give  minute  orders  at  home,  and  then  hurry 


4  THE   COUNTY  ROAD 

away  to  the  hayfield  or  his  fencing.  Abigail 
scrupulously  obeyed,  but  it  was  without  the  irri- 
tating consciousness  of  personal  supervision. 
Now  it  was  different. 

As  she  felt  the  stillness  of  the  day,  and  the 
warmth  of  the  soft  spring  air  blowing  in  at  the 
window,  she  pushed  back  the  bowl  against  her 
measuring-cup  and  made  a  little  clink.  In- 
stantly, as  if  the  sound  had  evoked  it,  a  voice 
sprang  from  the  sitting-room.  Jonathan  was 
awake. 

"Nabby,"  he  called,  ''what  you  doin'.?" 

Abigail  stood  arrested  for  a  moment,  like  a 
wood-creature  startled  on  its  way. 

"My  land  !  "  she  said,  beneath  her  breath. 
Then  she  answered  cheerfully,  "I'm  goin'  to 
stir  up  a  mite  o'  cake." 

"What  kind?" 

"  Oh,  I  dunno'.  One-two-three-four,  mebbe." 

"Where's  that  dried-apple  pie  we  had  yes- 
terday ?  "  inquired  Jonathan,  with  the  zest  she 
knew.    "Ain't  there  enough  for  supper?" 

"I  dunno'  but  there  is." 

"Then  what  you  makin'  cake  for?" 

"I  dunno'.  I  thought  mebbe  we'd  better 
have  suthin'  on  hand." 

"How  many  eggs  is  there  in  one-two-three- 
four?" 

"Why,  there's  two,  when  ye  make  half  the 


A  DAY  OFF  5 

receipt."  Abigail's  tone  was  uniformly  hearty 
and  full  of  a  zealous  interest;  but  she  shifted 
from  one  foot  to  the  other,  and  made  faces  at 
the  wall. 

"Ain't  there  any  kind  o'  cake  you  can  stir 
up  with  one  egg?'^ 

"Why,  there's  cup  cake;  but  it's  terrible  poor 
pickin',  seems  to  me." 

Jonathan  rose  and  took  his  way  to  the  kitchen. 
He  appeared  on  the  sill,  tall  and  lank,  his 
shrewd,  bright-eyed  face  diversified  by  the  long 
lines  that  creased  the  cheeks.  Abigail  stopped 
grimacing,  and  greeted  him  with  woman's  spe- 
cious smile. 

"Don't  ye  do  it  to-day,"  said  Jonathan,  not 
unkindly,  but  with  the  tone  of  an  impeccable 
adviser.  "You  have  the  apple  pie  to-day,  an' 
to-morrer  you  can  stir  up  a  cup  cake.  Eggs  are 
scurse  yit,  an'  they  will  be  till  the  spring  gits 
along  a  mite." 

"Well,"  answered  Abigail  obediently. 

She  began  setting  away  her  cooking  materials, 
and  Jonathan,  after  smoothing  his  hair  at  the 
kitchen  glass,  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out. 
Presently  she  saw  him,  one  foot  on  the  stone 
wall,  talking  with  a  neighbor  who  had  stopped 
his  jogging  horse  on  the  way  to  market.  There 
was  a  flurry  of  skirts  on  the  stairs,  and  Claribel 
ran  down,  dressed  in  her  blue  cashmere,  her 


6  THE   COUNTY  ROAD 

girdle  in  her  hand.  She  had  a  wholesome,  edi- 
ble prettiness,  all  rounded  contours  and  rich 
bloom. 

"Here,  mother,"  she  called,  and  thrust  the 
girdle  at  her.  "This  thing  hooks  behind.  It's 
awful  tight.    You  see  if  you  can  do  it." 

"You  wait  a  minute,"  said  Abigail.  "I'll 
wash  the  flour  off  my  hands."  She  went  to  the 
kitchen  sink,  and  afterwards,  standing  at  the 
roller-towel,  she  regarded  Claribel  with  a  fond 
delight  that  always  amused  the  girl  when  she 
could  stop  to  note  it.  Claribel  had  told  her 
mother,  before  this,  that  she  acted  as  if  girls 
were  worth  a  thousand  dollars  apiece.  "My!" 
said  Abigail,  pulling  discreetly  at  the  hooks, 
"  it  is  tight,  ain't  it  ?  I  'm  afraid  you  '11  feel  all 
girted  up." 

"I'll  hold  my  breath."  She  held  it  until  her 
cheeks  were  bursting  with  bloom,  and  the  girdle 
came  together. 

Abigail  put  up  a  tendril  of  hair  in  the  girl's 
neck  and  smoothed  a  bit  of  lace. 

"Now  you  hurry  off,"  she  said.  "If  I's  you, 
I'd  put  on  my  things  an'  slip  out  the  side  door, 
whilst  father  's  out  there  talkin'." 

Claribel  was  pinning  on  her  hat  at  the  glass. 
"\Miat  's  the  matter  of  father.?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  nothin'!  only  he's  got  one  o'  his  terrible 
times, — an'  nobody  to  it,  to-day.    If  he  sees 


A  DAY  OFF  7 

you're  goin'  anywheres,  like's  not  he'll  set  to 
an'  plan  it  different." 

"  Well,  he  need  n't,"  said  Claribel.  "  I  've  got 
to  have  some  Hamburg  an'  some  number  sixty 
cotton.    I'll  be  back  by  noon." 

"You  don't  want  I  should  call  out  to  Ebenezer 
an'  ask  him  for  a  ride.^"  inquired  her  mother, 
at  the  window,  a  doubtful  eye  on  the  farmer  still 
gossiping  without. 

"Now,  mother  !  "  Claribel  laughed.  "You 
know  well  enough  what  I'm  goin'  to  do.  I'm 
goin'  to  walk,  an'  Ballard  '11  overtake  me  when 
he  goes  to  get  the  mail.    It's  about  time  now." 

"Well,"  said  her  mother,  and  she  left  the 
window  and  came  to  hold  Claribel's  jacket. 
"My  soul  !  "  she  said  despairingly.  "  There's 
your  father  now." 

Jonathan's  step  was  at  the  door.  It  was 
brisker  than  when  it  bore  him  forth.  His  face 
had  lighted  in  new  interest. 

"Where  you  goin'.?"  he  asked  Claribel  at 
once. 

She  was  walking  past  him  to  the  door. 

"Oh,  just  up  to  the  Corners,"  she  answered 
casually.    "I've  got  to  have  some  things." 

"You  wait  a  spell,"  said  Jonathan.  He 
glanced  into  the  glass,  and  decided  he  need  not 
shave.  "I'm  goin'  up  along  to  git  some  onion- 
seed.    Ebenezer  says  old  Lang 's  got  some,  fust 


8  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

quality,  an'  if  we  don't  look  out  it  '11  all  be 
gone." 

"O  father!"  cried  Abigail  involuntarily. 

"You  come  out  an'  help  me  git  the  bits  in," 
said  Jonathan  to  his  wife.  *'I  can  manage  the 
rest  with  one  hand." 

Claribel  followed  them  hesitatingly  out 
through  the  shed. 

*' Father,"  she  began;  but  Jonathan  never 
turned.    "Father!" 

"Well,  what  is  it  ?  "  he  called  over  his  shoulder, 
and  her  mother  dropped  behind  and  walked 
with  her. 

"Don't  you  take  on,"  urged  Abigail.  There 
were  tears  in  her  own  eyes,  and  the  warm  air  on 
her  forehead  made  her  think  of  youth  as  well 
as  spring.  "You  know  he  can't  drive  very  well, 
on'y  one  hand  so.    Don't  you  mind." 

Claribel's  tears  also  had  sprung,  and  two  big 
crystal  globes  ran  out  and  splashed  her  cheeks. 

"  It  was  a  kind  of  an  agreement,"  she  said  pas- 
sionately. "Ballard's  got  two  watches  picked 
out  at  Ferris's,  and  he  wants  me  to  see  which 
one  I  like  best.  He'll  be  awful  mad,  and  I 
shan't  blame  him." 

"Father,"  called  Abigail.  "Father!"  She 
ran  on  into  the  barn  where  he  had  the  horse 
standing  while  he  gave  him  an  impatient  one- 
handed  brushing  with  a  bundle  of  hay.  "  Father, 


A  DAY  OFF  9 

Claribel  's  made  a  kind  of  an  agreement  to  go 
with  Ballard.  You  wait  a  minute  whilst  I  slip 
on  my  t'other  dress,  an'  I'll  go  with  ye." 

"Here,  you  git  in  them  bits,"  said  Jonathan. 
"God  sake!  Don't  you  hender  me  when  that 
onion-seed's  goin'  by  the  board.  They'll  be 
married  in  four  weeks,  won't  they.^  Well,  I 
guess  Claribel  can  stan'  it  if  she  don't  see  him 
for  twenty -four  hours." 

Abigail  got  the  bits  in,  and  went  on  deftly 
harnessing.  She  spoke  but  once.  That  was  when 
Claribel  came  and  began  to  fasten  a  trace. 

"Go  'way,  dear,"  said  the  mother,  in  an 
eloquent  tenderness.  "You  '11  git  horse-hairs  all 
over  you." 

Then  Claribel  stepped  silently  into  the  wagon; 
her  father  followed  her,  and  they  drove  away. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  they 
came  home.  Jonathan  was  in  high  spirits.  He 
had  got  his  onion-seed ;  and  then,  having  heard 
of  an  auction,  five  miles  farther  on,  where  there 
was  a  cultivator  as  good  as  new,  he  had  bought 
some  crackers  and  cheese  at  the  grocery  and 
driven  there.  He  and  Claribel  had  eaten  their 
lunch  in  the  wagon,  and  then  Claribel  had  sat 
drearily  by  while  her  father  bid  and  reft  bar- 
gains away  from  other  bidders.  Now  Claribel 
was  heavy-eyed,  and  her  mouth  looked  pitiful. 
She  ate  sparingly  of  the  early  supper  her  mother 


10  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

set  out  for  them,  and  then,  after  washing  the 
dishes,  sat  awhile  by  the  window  in  the  dusk. 
Her  mother  knew  she  was  watching;  but  Bal- 
lard did  not  come,  and  at  nine  o'clock  the 
girl  walked  droopingly  off  to  bed. 

Abigail  was  late  in  going  to  sleep  that  night. 
She  lay  looking  into  the  darkness,  tears  some- 
times gathering  in  her  eyes  and  then  softly 
wiped  away  on  a  corner  of  the  sheet.  It  was 
not  that  she  failed  to  bear  a  little  disappoint- 
ment for  Claribel;  but,  to  her  mind,  youth 
was  youth.  There  were  times  when  one  wanted 
things,  and  if  they  had  to  be  put  off,  they  were 
not  the  same.    One  bud  could  never  open  twice. 

When  breakfast  was  over,  Jonathan  settled 
himself  in  the  sitting-room  with  the  county 
paper,  and  Claribel  slipped  into  the  pantry  and 
beckoned  her  mother.    The  girl  spoke  shyly: 

"I  don't  know  but  I'll  run  over  to  Ballard's 
and  ask  his  mother  for  that  skirt  pattern." 

"So  do,"  said  Abigail,  with  understanding. 

"You  see"  —  Claribel  went  on.  She  bent  her 
head,  and  the  corners  of  her  mouth  trembled. 
"I  don't  want  you  should  think  I'm  foolish; 
but  yesterday  was  a  kind  of  a  particular  day 
with  us.  'T  was  a  year  ago  yesterday  we  were 
engaged,  and  it  was  kind  of  understood  we 
were  going  to  look  at  the  watch  together.  The 
reason  I  told  Ballard  I'd  walk  along  and  let 


A  DAY   OFF  11 

him  overtake  me  —  well,  I  did  n't  dare  to  have 
him  come  here,  for  fear  father 'd  spoil  it  some- 
how. And  then  he  saw  me  drive  by  with  father, 
and  not  a  word  to  say  why,  and  father  was  in 
a  hurry  and  would  n't  let  me  stop,  —  and  if  I 
was  in  Ballard's  place  I  should  be  mad  as  fire." 

"You  go  right  over,"  responded  Abigail, 
something  throbbing  in  her  voice.  "Slip  out 
the  porch  door,  and  clip  it  right  along." 

Again  Abigail  stood  at  the  table,  her  mixing- 
bowl  before  her,  and  at  the  clink  of  her  spoon 
Jonathan's  voice  came  promptly  from  the  other 
room: 

"Nabby,  what  you  doin'  of?" 

This  time  her  muttered  exclamation  had  the 
fierceness  of  accumulated  wrongs,  but  she  added 
cheerfully : 

"I'm  mixin'  up  a  mite  o'  cake." 

"What  kind?" 

For  an  instant  Abigail  compressed  her  lips, 
and  then  she  added,  desperately,  as  one  whose 
resolve  had  hardened: 

"Cupcake." 

"How  many  eggs?" 

"One."  At  the  instant  of  speaking,  she  took 
two  eggs  from  the  basket  and,  one  in  either 
hand,  broke  them  at  the  same  instant  upon  the 
edge  of  the  bowl.  Jonathan's  ears  were  keen, 
but  they  did  not  serve  him  against  the  testimony 


12  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

of  that  one  innocent  crack.  Abigail  beat  them 
hastily,  and  pouring  them  into  her  butter  and 
sugar,  breathed  again. 

"You  call  Claribel.  I  want  her  to  help  me  a 
mite  down  sullar,"  said  Jonathan,  on  his  way 
to  the  kitchen. 

Abigail,  at  his  step,  crumpled  one  eggshell 
in  her  hand  and  hastily  thrust  it  into  the  coals. 
She  laid  a  light  stick  over  it. 

"I  want  to  have  her  sprout  some  o'  them 
Haters  in  the  arch." 

"She  can't  do  it  this  forenoon,"  said  his 
wife  glibly.    "She's  gone  out." 

"Where?" 

"Down  to  Mis'  Towle's.  I  sent  her  to  carry 
back  that  peck  measure  you  borrered  last 
week." 

A  strange  exhilaration  possessed  her.  Abigail 
did  not  remember  to  have  lied  willfully  in  all  her 
life  before.  Her  diflBcult  way  had  been,  against 
all  temptation,  to  tell  the  bare  truth  and  suffer 
for  it;  but  now  that  she  had  begun  to  lie,  she 
liked  it.  She  looked  at  her  husband,  as  he  stood 
in  the  doorway  gazing  innocently  over  her 
head  at  the  window  where  the  spring  made  a 
misty  picture,  and  wondered  what  he  would  say 
if  he  guessed  what  was  in  her  heart.  She  hardly 
thought  herself,  save  that  it  was  something  new 
and  wild:  the  resolve  to  say  anything  that  came 


A  DAY  OFF  13 

into  her  head,  and  take  the  consequences. 
Jonathan  was  pondering. 

"Why,"  said  he  slowly,  at  last,  "seems  to  me 
I  carried  back  that  peck  measure  myself,  day  or 
two  ago." 

Now  Abigail  remembered  seeing  him  walk 
out  of  the  yard  with  it  in  his  hand ;  but  she  did 
not  flinch. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  did  n't !    Claribel  's  just  took  it." 

There  was  another  pause,  and  Jonathan 
spoke  again. 

"  Claribel  asked  me  for  some  money  t'  other 
day.  Said  she  wanted  to  git  two  more  gowns. 
You  think  she  needs  'em  ?" 

"I  know  she  does,"  returned  Abigail  vigor- 
ously. "You  don't  want  she  should  walk  out 
o'  this  house  without  a  stitch  to  her  back,  do  ye, 
an'  have  Ballard  set  to  an'  clothe  her?" 

"You  gi'n  her  any  money  this  winter?" 

Abigail  remembered  her  hard-won  store  of 
butter-and-eggs  money,  put  aside  from  the  mo- 
ment Ballard  had  begun  his  courting,  and  she 
remembered  the  day  when  she  and  Claribel  had 
stolen  off  to  the  Corners  to  spend  the  precious 
store  in  fine  cloth  and  trimming.  But  she 
looked  her  husband  straight  in  the  eye. 

"Not  a  cent,"  she  answered,  and  liked  the 
sound  of  it. 

"Well,"  concluded  Jonathan, " I '11  hand  her 


14  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

some  to-morrer.  I  '11  make  it  what  you  think  's 
best." 

For  a  moment  her  heart  softened,  but  Jona- 
than spoke  again: 

"You  ain't  a-goin'  to  make  weddin'  cake,  be 

ye?" 

The  strange  part  of  her  new  communion  with 
him  was  that,  as  her  tongue  formed  the  lie,  her 
mind  flashed  a  picture  of  the  truth  before  her. 
Now  she  had  a  swift  vision  of  the  day  when  he 
had  gone  to  town  meeting,  and  she  and  Claribel 
had  baked  the  wedding  cake,  in  furious  haste, 
and  set  it  away  to  mellow. 

"No,"  said  she  calmly;  "I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
make  no  cake.     I  got  a  little  on  hand." 

"When'dyehaveit?" 

"  Oh,  I  dunno' !     I  got  a  loaf  or  two." 

"Well,"  Jonathan  ruminated,  "I  dunno 's  I 
remember  your  bakin'  any." 

"  I  did  n't  bake  it.  'T  was  some  Aunt  Lu- 
cretia  left  in  her  crock  when  she  moved  out 
West."  She  thought  with  wonder  of  the  ease 
with  which  new  worlds  could  be  created  merely 
by  the  tongue.  It  gave  her  a  sense  of  lightness 
and  freedom.  She  could  almost  forgive  Jona- 
than for  meddling,  since  he  had  introduced  her 
to  these  brilliant  possibilities. 

"That 's  terrible  yellerfor  one  egg,''  he  com- 
mented, as  she  poured  her  cake  into  the  pan. 


A  DAY  OFF  15 

"  It  had  two  yolks,"  said  Abigail  calmly.  She 
felt  an  easy  mastery  of  him.  Then  she  closed 
the  oven  door,  cleared  off  her  cooking  table,  and 
sat  down  to  sew. 

This  was  one  of  the  days  when  Jonathan 
seemed  possessed  by  the  spirit  of  discovery.  He 
took  up  a  bit  of  edging  from  the  window-sill,  and 
held  it  in  a  clumsy  hand. 

"How  much  do  ye  pay  for  that  trade?"  he 
inquired. 

"Two  cents,"  responded  Abigail. 

"  Two  cents !  That 's  more  'n  two  cents  a 
yard!" 

"  No.  It 's  a  cent  an'  a  half  a  yard  an'  five 
yards  for  two  cents.     We  got  five." 

"I  never  heerd  o'  such  carryin's  on."  Jona- 
than spoke  helplessly.  "  They  can't  do  business 
that  way." 

"They  do."     She  spoke  conclusively. 

He  took  up  another  wider  remnant.  This 
was  a  coarse  lace. 

"How  much  d'ye  pay  for  that?"  he  asked. 

"Nothin',"  said  Abigail.     "I  made  it." 

Jonathan  ruminated.  He  felt  exceedingly 
puzzled.  It  was  not  that  he  distrusted  her. 
No  moment  of  their  life  together  had  failed 
to  convince  him  that  she  was  honest  as  the 
day. 

"  I  dunno  's  I  ever  see  you  doin'  anything  like 


16  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

that,"  he  commented.  "How'd  ye  do  it? 
Looks  as  if  't  was  wove." 

"I  done  it  on  pins,"  said  Abigail  wildly. 

"Common  pins?" 

"No.     Clo'es-pins." 

Jonathan  frowned  and  gazed  at  her,  still 
reflecting. 

"Mebbe  you  could  make  some  to  sell,"  he 
ventured.  "Looks  as  if  there  might  be  some 
profit  in't." 

"I  don't  want  no  profit,"  returned  his  wife, 
unmoved,  and  Jonathan  presently  went  out  to 
the  barn,  ruminating  by  the  way. 

Then  when  his  step  had  ceased  on  the  shed 
floor,  Abigail  laid  down  her  sewing.  She  looked 
briefly  up  to  heaven,  as  if  she  interrogated  the 
bolt  that  was  presently  to  stun  her;  but  the  bolt 
did  not  fall,  and  she  began  to  laugh.  She 
laughed  until  the  tears  came,  and  her  face,  suf- 
fused with  mirth,  looked  a  dozen  years  to  the 
good.  She  dried  her  eyes,  but  without  wiping 
away  any  of  that  new  emotion.  She  could  not 
yet  blame  herself  for  anything  so  rare. 

The  noon  dinner  was  on  the  table,  and  Claribel 
had  not  come.  Her  mother  had  set  forth  a  goodly 
meal,  and  she  talked  cheerfully  through  it.  But 
Jonathan  was  never  to  be  quite  distracted. 

"Where's  Claribel?"  he  asked,  with  his 
second  piece  of  pie. 


A  DAY  OFF  17 

^  "She  ain't  comin',"  answered  her  mother,  at 
random.  "I'll  set  suthin'  out  on  the  pantry- 
shelf,  an'  she  can  have  it  when  she  wants." 

Jonathan  paused,  with  a  choice  morsel  on  the 
way  to  his  mouth. 

"You  don't  s'pose  she's  fetched  up  at  Bal- 
lard's an'  stayed  there  to  dinner,  do  ye?"  he 
asked. 

"Well,  what  if  she  has?" 

"  Nothin',  only  I  wanted  to  know.  I  'd  step 
over  there  arter  dinner  an'  fetch  her." 

Abigail  laid  down  her  fork.  She  spoke  with 
the  desperation  of  one  already  lost. 

"  Now,  father,  I  '11  tell  ye  plainly,  I  ain't  goin' 
to  have  Claribel  disturbed.  She 's  up-chamber, 
layin'  down  with  a  sick  headache,  an'  I've 
turned  the  key  in  the  door." 

"Well,  ye  need  n't  ha'  done  that,"  Jonathan 
wondered.     "She  might  as  well  sleep  it  off." 

"  I  '11  sprout  the  'taters,"  she  asserted  vigor- 
ously, "but  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  have  her  round 
with  a  headache  an'  git  all  beat  out  so  she  don't 
do  a  stitch  o'  work  to-morrer." 

Jonathan  said  nothing,  and  after  dinner  she 
sped  upstairs,  locked  the  door  of  Claribel's 
room,  and  put  the  key  in  her  pocket.  Then, 
with  a  mind  at  ease,  she  washed  her  dinner 
dishes  and  went  down  cellar.  There  she 
sprouted  potatoes  with  a  swift  dexterity  and  a 


18  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

joyous  heart.  Claribel  was  abroad  somewhere, 
she  knew,  roaming  the  free  world.  That  was 
enough. 

At  five  Jonathan  finished  his  nap,  and  came 
heavily  to  the  door  above. 

"Here,  you,"  he  called.  "I've  be'n  up- 
chamber  to  find  out  how  Glaribel  is.  The 
door 's  locked  an'  there  ain't  no  key  inside.  You 
got  the  key?" 

Abigail  rose  and  dusted  the  dirt  from  her 
hands.     Her  task  was  done. 

"No,"  said  she.     "I  ain't  got  no  key." 

"I  thought  you  said  you  locked  the  door. 
Did  n't  you  take  the  key?" 

Abigail  was  mounting  the  cellar  stairs.  She 
faced  him  calmly. 

"No,  I  never  said  any  such  thing,"  she  re- 
turned, with  an  easy  grace.  "  Clary 's  locked  it, 
I  s'pose.  If  she  don't  answer,  she's  asleep. 
You  let  her  be,  Jonathan.  It 's  no  way  to  go 
routin'  anybody  out  when  they've  got  a  head- 
ache." 

"Well,"  said  Jonathan,  and  grumbled  off  to 
the  barn. 

Abigail  felt  more  and  more  under  the  spell  of 
her  new  system.  It  swept  her  like  a  mounting 
flood.  She  had  lied  all  day.  It  was  easy  and 
she  liked  it.  With  a  mirthful  feeling  that  some 
compensation   was   due    Jonathan,   she   made 


A  DAY  OFF  19 

cream-of-tartar  biscuits  and  opened  quince  pre- 
serve. The  one-two-three-four  cake  was  golden 
within  and  sweetly  brown  on  top;  it  had  not  suf- 
fered from  the  artifice  that  went  to  the  making 
of  it. 

The  door  opened  and  Claribel  came  in.  She 
had  her  jacket  on  her  arm,  and  her  cheeks  were 
all  a  crimson  bloom.  A  fine  gold  chain  was 
about  her  neck,  and  immediately  she  drew  a 
watch  from  her  belt  and  opened  it,  with  a  child's 
delight. 

" Look,  mother,  look! "  she  cried.  The  words 
followed  one  another  in  a  rapid  stream.  "He 
wa'n't  mad  a  mite.  He  said  he  knew  'twas 
something  I  could  n't  help.  And  we  went  and 
got  it,  and  had  dinner  at  the  hotel.  I  guess  I 
shan't  ever  forget  this  day  long 's  I  live." 

Abigail  was  holding  the  watch,  spellbound 
over  its  beauty.  But  at  that  she  broke  into  a 
laugh,  wild  and  mirthless. 

"No,"  said  she,  "no.  I  guess  I  shan't 
either." 

"Mother,  what  you  mean?"  The  girl  was 
answering  in  a  quick  alarm.  "Anything  hap- 
pened to  you.'^" 

Abigail  quieted  at  once. 

"No,  dear,  no,"  she  said.  "I've  had  a  real 
nice  day.  On'y  I  've  kinder  worried  for  fear  you 
would  n't  see  Ballard,  an'  all.     Now  you  take 


20  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

off  your  things,  an'  father  '11  be  in,  an'  we  '11  have 
supper." 

But  when  they  were  sitting  at  the  table,  Jona- 
than kept  glancing  at  Claribel,  her  red  cheeks 
and  brilliant  eyes. 

"Ain't  you  kinder  feverish?"  he  asked,  and 
Abigail  answered: 

"See  here,  father.  Ballard's  give  her  a 
watch.     Ain't  that  handsome?" 

Jonathan  turned  it  over  and  over  in  his  hand. 

"I  guess  it  cost  him  suthin',"  he  remarked. 
"  Well,  to-morrer  we  '11  see  if  we  can't  git  to- 
gether a  little  suthin'  more  for  clo'es." 

Claribel  went  to  bed  early,  to  dream,  with 
her  watch  under  her  pillow,  and  the  husband 
and  wife  sat  together  by  the  fire  below.  When 
the  clock  struck  nine,  they  rose,  in  lingering 
unison,  and  made  ready  to  go  upstairs.  Abigail 
cleared  her  sewing  from  the  table,  and  Jonathan 
shut  the  stove  dampers  and  wound  the  clock. 

"They  've  got  that  feller  over  to  the  Corners," 
he  announced,  as  he  waited  for  her  to  set  back 
the  chairs. 

"What  feller?" 

"The  one  that  stole  Si  Merrill's  team.  They 
clapped  him  into  jail,  an'  I  guess  there  '11  be  con- 
sid'able  of  a  time  over  it.  He  had  n't  a  word 
to  say." 

Abigail  was  standing  before  him,  her  hands 


A  DAY  OFF  21 

clasped  under  her  apron,  as  if  they  were  cold. 
Her  face  looked  tired  and  pale.  She  spoke 
with  a  passionate  insistence. 

"  Jonathan,  I  've  found  out  suthin'.  It  don't 
do  to  do  the  leastest  thing  that 's  wrong." 

"Why,  no,"  Jonathan  acquiesced,  getting  a 
newspaper  and  laying  it  before  the  hearth  for 
the  morning's  kindling.  "Anybody's  likely  to 
git  took  up  for  it." 

"  It  ain't  that,"  said  Abigail.  Her  small  face 
had  grown  tense  from  the  extremity  of  terrible 
knowledge.  "  You  might  go  along  quite  a  spell 
an'  not  git  found  out.  It's  because" —  She 
halted  a  moment,  and  her  voice  dropped  a  note 
— "it's  because  wrong-doin's  so  pleasant." 

"You  take  the  lamp,"  said  Jonathan.  Then 
he  remembered  that  the  argument  should  be 
clinched,  and  added,  with  his  Sunday  manner: 

"The  way  o'  the  transgressor  is  hard." 

"It  ain't,"  asserted  Abigail,  at  the  stairs. 
"  It 's  elegant.  It 's  enough  to  scare  ye  to  death, 
ye  have  such  a  good  time  in  it,  an'  ye  go  so  fast. 
It 's  like  slidin'  down  hill  an'  the  wind  at  your 
back.  Mebbe  the  feller  that  stole  Si's  team 
grabbed  an  apple  off 'n  a  tree  once  an'  that 
started  him.  I  don't  blame  him.  I  don't 
blame   nobody." 

Jonathan  was  beginning  the  ascent,  and  she 
paused  and  looked  back  at  the  kitchen,  as  if 


22  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

there  were  the  inanimate  witnesses  of  her 
perfidy. 

"I've  had  a  splendid  day,"  she  said  aloud. 
"  I  've  had  the  best  time  I  've  had  for  years.  I 
ain't  ever  goin'  to  have  another  like  it.  I  don't 
dast  to.  'T  would  n't  take  much  to  land  me  in 
jail.  But  I  ain't  sorry,  an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  say 
I  be." 

"What  you  doin'  of  down  there?"  called 
Jonathan.     "Who  you  talkin'  to?" 

"  I  'm  comin',"  said  Abigail.  "  I  '11  bring  the 
light." 


OLD   IMMORTALITY 


OLD  IMMORTALITY 

Old  John  Buckham  stood  at  the  kitchen  door, 
watching  his  wife  while  she  picked  her  way 
along  the  path  between  his  house  and  the  Fos- 
ters'. It  was  early  spring,  and  there  was  still 
snow  in  crusty  patches;  but  the  path  was  kept 
open  in  all  weather  because  Mrs.  Buckham 
liked  to  take  that  way.  She  came  slowly,  her 
slender  figure  wrapped  in  its  Irish  cloak  and  her 
sweet  winter-apple  face  looking  out  from  the 
quilted  hood. 

"You  be  careful  there!"  shouted  old  John. 
"It 's  all  of  a  glare  of  ice." 

Mrs.  Buckham  reached  the  doorstone  safely, 
and  there  she  stamped  her  feet  and  shook  her 
skirts  free  of  fringing  frost. 

"No,  't  ain't  either,"  she  said,  in  a  pleasant 
treble.  "You  've  laid  so  much  ashes  down 
it  '11  all  spring  up  clover,  come  next  May." 

Her  husband  was  a  tall,  clean-looking  man 
with  an  aquiline  nose,  and  whimsical  lines 
about  the  firm-cut  mouth.  He  put  out  a  hand 
to  help  her  into  the  kitchen,  but  she  repulsed 
him  with  a  little  pat  like  the  quick  play  of  a 
cat's  paw.     She  spoke  in  a  merry  tenderness : 


26  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"There!  there!  I  ain't  a  hunderd." 

She  was  taking  off  her  hood  by  the  kitchen 
stove,  her  husband  standing  by,  when  he  re- 
marked incidentally: 

"Mr.  Blaisdell  's  in  the  fore-room." 

"Mr.  Blaisdell!     Not  our  minister?" 

"Yes." 

"In  the  fore-room?     He  must  be  froze." 

"No,  he  ain't.  I  blazed  a  fire.  I  should 
ha'  set  him  down  here  by  the  kitchen  sto',  but  I 
thought  you'd  have  a  conniption  fit." 

"Well!"  she  smoothed  her  hair  with  both 
hands,  and  turned  toward  the  parlor  door. 
"  What 's  he  want  ?  Anything  particular  ?  "  she 
asked,  in  a  manner  suited  to  ecclesiastical 
themes. 

"  Oh,  jest  a  visitation,  I  guess,"  said  old  John. 
Then  his  jaw  stiffened  perceptibly,  and  he 
added,  "  He  's  heerd  'em  call  me  *  Old  Immor- 
tality,' an'  he  wants  to  bring  me  to  book  for 
sayin'  I  expect  to  live  forever." 

"John!" 

"There!  there,  Mary!  don't  you  mind.  You 
need  n't  go  in  if  you  don't  want  to.  He  can  talk 
to  me  from  now  till  cockcrow.     Do  him  good." 

"Well,  I  guess  I  shall  go  in,"  said  Mrs.  Buck- 
ham,  and  she  lifted  the  latch  and  entered  the 
parlor,  her  husband  following. 

The  minister  sat  there  by  the  air-tight  stove. 


OLD  IMMORTALITY  27 

in  the  guarded  calm  of  an  atmosphere  not  yet 
thawed  beyond  a  short  and  torrid  radius.  He 
was  a  Hght,  thick-set  young  man  with  an  earnest 
look  and  no  sign  of  humor  yet  developed  in  him. 
He  rose  to  meet  his  hostess  in  her  dignified 
approach,  and  listened  to  her  "Pleased  to  see 
you,"  with  some  lessening  of  tension.  John 
Buckham  threatened  to  be  a  hard  nut  to  crack, 
and  the  calm  old  woman  seemed  at  once  to 
promise  some  amelioration  of  the  hour.  She 
sat  down  within  scorching  distance  of  the  stove ; 
but  old  John  took  a  chair  by  the  window,  and 
with  a  careful  finger  followed  a  line  of  frost 
upon  the  pane.  To  his  wife's  experienced  eye 
he  looked  like  a  boy  detected  in  misdoing,  and 
bent  on  at  least  smudging  the  window  while  his 
guilt  was  being  reckoned;  but  the  minister's 
glance  was  on  her,  and  she  denied  herself  even  a 
warning  headshake.  The  young  man  made  two 
or  three  conversational  forays  into  fields 
bounded  by  the  weather  and  the  hygienic  value 
of  his  own  brisk  walk  from  town.  Then,  with 
an  unhappy  haste,  he  caught  up  a  thread  of 
talk  where  it  had  been  broken. 

"Your  husband  and  I,  Mrs.  Buckham,  have 
been  having  a  little  discussion.  Rather,  I 
might  say,  I  hope  to  lead  him  into  one.  Of 
course  I  was  hardly  settled  here  when  they  told 
me  ' Old  Immortality'  does  n't  intend  to  die.     I 


28  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

was  greatly  interested.  I  felt  that  I  ought  to 
know  the  grounds  of  his  assurance, —  or,  I 
might  call  it,  his  belief." 

Old  John's  face  lighted  with  an  emotion 
desperately  summoned. 

"Ever  hear,"  he  asked  ingratiatingly,  "of  the 
man  down  by  Peppermint  Bridge  that 's  tryin' 
to  invent  a  dog-barker.^" 

"No,"  said  the  minister,  with  a  hopeful  cour- 
tesy. He  did  not  know  old  John.  He  could 
believe,  until  the  moment  of  enlightenment,  that 
even  theoretical  dog-barkers  had  some  bearing 
on  a  life  beyond  the  grave. 

Old  John  continued,  with  a  false  assurance, 
avoiding  his  wife's  eye: 

"  He  's  been  to  work  a  matter  o'  ten  year  with 
two  pieces  o'  wood  an'  a  kind  of  a  bellus  he  got 
out  of  an  old  melodeon.  When  it 's  done,  he  's 
goin'  to  take  out  a  patent  on  it.  'Hendrick's 
Dog-barker,'  that 's  what  it 's  goin'  to  be  named 
—  '  Hendrick's  Dog-barker ' ! " 

Mrs.  Buckham  sat  straight  and  tall,  as  if 
chair-backs  had  no  meaning.  A  tiny  spot  of  red 
burned  on  each  cheek;  her  hands  were  folded. 
She  could  not  bring  her  mate  to  shame  by 
public  censure ;  he  knew  that,  and  he  was  trad- 
ing on  it. 

The  minister  laughed  briefly,  following  old 
John's  lead. 


OLD  IMMORTALITY  29 

"  I  hardly  see  the  utility  of  such  a  notion,"  he 
hesitated. 

"  Great  sale  for  a  thing  like  that,"  declared 
old  John.  **  Give  one  o'  the  handles  a  h'ist,  fill 
up  the  bellus  with  air,  an'  then  let  her  go,  an' 
she  barks  out  jes'  like  a  little  yappin'  dog.  A 
child  could  work  it.  Widders  an'  old  maids  'd 
buy  'em  by  the  hunderd  an'  keep  'em  in  the 
front  entry  to  guard  the  premises.  '  Hendrick's 
Dog-barker'!"  He  laughed  softly  to  himself, 
yet  his  guilty  eye  wandered  to  avoid  his  wife. 

"The  man  is  undoubtedly  insane,"  said  the 
minister  sharply. 

"Oh,  no!  Hendrick  ain't  insane.  He's  got 
a  kind  of  an  ingenious  turn  o'  mind,  that 's  all. 
But  they  're  a  queer  set  down  there  to  Pepper- 
mint Bridge.  Why,  winter  'fore  last,  the  night 
school  meetin'  was  app'inted  it  snowed  great 
guns.  Some  o'  the  young  fellers  got  through 
the  drifts  an'  they  hil'  the  meetin',  an'  got  a 
majority,  an'  voted  to  build  the  new  schoolhouse 
out  o'  slippery-elm." 

Mrs.  Buckham  had  not  spoken,  and  for  the 
moment  old  John  felt  the  irresponsible  joy  of 
one  escaping  penalty. 

"  Peppermint  Bridge ! "  he  repeated,  careering 
on.  "I  guess  so!  The  things  that  go  on  there 
'd  fill  a  Bible.  There  was  Deacon  Bray;  as 
soon  as  he  moved  into  his  new  house  he  let  the 


30  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

old  one  to  a  couple  o'  school-teachers  from 
Boston.  Well,  they  come  down  along  the  last 
o'  June  an'  settled  themselves,  an'  the  first  Sun- 
day over  walks  the  deacon's  two  boys  —  reg'lar 
black  sheep  they  be"  — 

"John,"  said  Mrs.  Buckham,  "you  put  in 
another  stick  o'  wood." 

Old  John  brought  his  lean  length  upright  and 
opened  the  stove  door  with  a  cheerful  "Gee!" 
and  a  shake  of  his  burned  fingers.  But  he  went 
on:  "Over  comes  the  two  boys  and  says,  'Ain't 
there  no  jobs  you  'd  like  to  have  done  ?  We  'd 
be  real  pleased,'  says  they.  The  schoolma'ams 
let  'em  split  some  kindlin'  an'  mow  round  under 
the  apple-trees  an'  clean  up  the  sullar,  an'  every 
Sunday  they  'd  come  as  reg'lar  as  a  clock  an' 
work  like  silkworms.  The  deacon  he  'd  gone 
off  to  meetin',  ye  see,  so  he  never  sensed  what 
was  goin'  on.  The  boys  never  set  foot  inside 
the  meetin'-house,  an'  he  'd  give  up  expectin'  it. 
They  struck  on  that  when  they  got  their  ma- 
jority. Well,  so  't  went  on.  The  schoolma'ams 
kinder  set  'em  off  to  the  neighbors.  'Our 
admirers,'  they  called  'em.  'Our  admirers!' 
Well,  there  't  was.  The  schoolma'ams  had 
their  summer,  and  went  off  in  the  fall.  Next 
summer  they  took  the  house  ag'in,  but  no  boys ! 
They  saved  up  jobs  an'  done  'em  themselves, 
an'  then  they  curled  their  hair  an'  put  up  their 


OLD  IMMORTALITY  31 

parasols  an'  walked  over  to  deacon's  to  say  how 
much  they  liked  the  place." 

"John!"  warned  his  mate. 

"But  them  boys  had  slipped  into  the  vast 
unknown.  One  day  one  o'  the  schoolma'ams 
could  n't  Stan'  it  no  longer,  an'  sl^e  says  to  old 
Elbridge  Lane  they  'd  hired  to  do  some  o'  the 
jobs  the  boys  never  applied  for, —  she  says, 
*  Where  's  our  two  admirers  ? '  says  she.  El- 
bridge leaned  on  his  scythe  an'  begun  to  wheeze. 
He  ain't  got  a  tooth  in  his  head  except  two  in 
front,  in  the  receipt  o'  custom,  he  keeps  to  stiddy 
his  pipe  an'  whistle  through.  'Well,'  says  El- 
bridge, *  did  n't  you  know  what  they  come  for  ? ' 
The  schoolma'am  bridled.  She  wa'n't  any  too 
young.  'They  offered  to  do  our  work,'  says 
she.  'Why,'  says  Elbridge,  —  'why,  last  year 
Deacon  Bray  left  his  hard  cider  stored  in  your 
suUar,  an'  this  summer  't  ain't  here.'  "  Old 
John  was  lying  at  ease  in  the  great  rocker,  his 
legs  outstretched,  his  doom  for  the  moment  for- 
gotten. He  opened  his  well-furnished  mouth 
and  roared ;  but  in  the  midst  the  silence  blighted 
him,  and  he  looked  from  the  minister  to  his 
wife  with  a  relaxing  jaw.  "Well!"  said  he, — 
"well!" 

No  conversational  tactics  would  serve  his 
purpose.     The  minister  was  not  diverted. 

"Mr.  Buckham,"  said  he,  rather  sharply,  "  I 


32  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

am  told  you  made  the  statement  at  Friday  even- 
ing meeting  that  you  did  n't  expect  to  die." 

Old  John  sat  upright  and  put  the  tips  of  his 
fingers  together.  His  face  settled  into  an  ex- 
treme seriousness.  This  was  his  look  when 
matters  were  under  discussion  at  town  meeting 
and  the  issue  was  grave. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  said  that." 

"Did  you  refer  to  your  immortality  after 
death.?" 

"I  referred,"  said  old  John,  bringing  his  fist 
down  on  his  knee,  "to  the  life  I  'm  livin'  now 
right  here  in  Rockin'ham  County.  I  said  I 
should  n't  die,  an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to." 

"What  basis  have  you  for  your  belief?  No 
doubt  you  can  give  me  chapter  and  verse." 

"I  don't  base  it  on  chapters  nor  verses.  I 
base  it  on  what  I  know.  There  is  no  need  o'  my 
dyin',  an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to." 

"Where  do  you  get  your  assurance,  Mr. 
Buckham.?" 

"I  feel  it.     That's  enough  for  me." 

"  Do  you  assume  that  others  can  taste  of  the 
same  immortality.?" 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  that,"  said  old 
John  obstinately.  "That's  their  lookout.  I 
only  know  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  die." 

His  wife  began  speaking  in  a  tremulous  key. 
Two  tears  were  on  her  cheeks. 


OLD  IMMORTALITY  33 

"He  ain't  ever  had  a  day's  sickness  in  his 
life.  His  teeth  is  as  sound  as  a  nut.  They 
ain't  ever  ached,  an'  he  's  kep'  all  his  hair"  — 

"There,  there,  Mary!"  said  her  husband, 
with  a  whimsical  tenderness ;  "  anybody  'd  think 
you  wanted  to  see  me  droppin'  to  pieces  like  a 
feather  duster."  But  when  she  put  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes  the  sight  enraged  him,  and 
he  turned  to  the  young  man.  "  Now  look  here," 
said  he, "  le'  's  have  it  out  here  an'  now.  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  have  anybody  comin'  into  my  house 
an'  stirrin'  up  strife,  let  him  be  what  he  will.  I 
don't  believe  I  'm  goin'  to  die.  There,  now!  put 
that  in  your  pipe  an'  smoke  it.  If  you  think  I 
don't  believe  the  Bible,  you  can  think  so.  If 
you  think  I  ain't  fit  to  go  to  the  communion 
table,  you  can  say  so  an'  I  '11  keep  out.  But  as 
for  sayin'  I  'm  goin'  to  die  an'  be  buried  under- 
ground, I  won't  —  for  I  know  I  ain't.  There ! 
that 's  my  last  word." 

"Well!"  said  the  minister,  in  his  turn, — 
"well!"  And  he  rose  to  go.  He  got  out  of  the 
house  in  a  dazed  fashion,  with  a  shake  of  the 
hand  judiciously  graduated  to  express  sympathy 
with  the  wife  and  admonition  to  the  husband. 
But  at  the  door  he  paused. 

"  I  should  be  extremely  sorry,  Mr.  Buckham," 
he  said,  with  an  awkward  honesty,  "if  you 
should  stay  away  from  the  communion  table,  or 


34  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

if  I  have  in  any  manner  "  —  He  turned  to  the 
wife  with  a  boyish  smile.  "You  bring  him 
along,  Mrs.  Buckham,"  he  ended.  "Don't 
you  let  him  stay  out  of  the  fold." 

"There!"  said  old  John,  as  he  and  his  wife 
entered  the  house  together,  "  he  ain't  a  bad  little 
chap."  But  his  valiant  demeanor  had 
shrunken;  he  was  a  conciliatory  figure  casting 
droll,  beseeching  eyes  at  the  woman  he  wished 
to  please.  His  wife  knew  her  power  at  such 
crises.  She  was  sorry  for  him,  but  he  had 
mixed  his  cup,  and  he  must  taste  it.  She  went 
in  with  the  step  of  a  justly  offended  woman  and 
took  up  her  knitting  by  the  kitchen  fire.  Old 
John  fidgeted  about  the  room  and  found  himself 
perfunctory  occupations.  He  opened  the  clock 
door  and  touched  the  pendulum  stealthily,  like 
an  idle  boy.  Then  he  tore  a  strip  of  paper  from 
the  edge  of  the  county  "Star"  and  began  to 
make  a  lamplighter;  but  his  great  fingers  got  in 
his  way,  and  he  gave  it  up. 

"Oh,  the  dogs!"  he  said. 

He  looked  at  Mary.  There  was  a  little 
tremble  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth.  He  knew 
it  well. 

"You  want  I  should  put  another  stick  o' 
wood  in  the  fore-room  sto'?"  he  asked  hope- 
fully. 

"  No,  I  guess  not,"  she  answered.     Her  tone 


OLD  IMMORTALITY  35 

had  a  gentle  neutrality  most  discouraging. 
Old  John's  temperature  fell. 

**  Oh! "  said  he.  He  went  to  the  window  and 
stood  drumming  on  the  pane.  He  began  watch- 
ing the  road,  and  contracted  his  gaze  in  the 
manner  of  one  who  sees  unexpected  succor. 
"Mary!"  cried  he  joyously.    "Here's  doctor!" 

"The  land  suz!"  cried  Mary,  rising  and  roll- 
ing up  her  yarn.     "He  ain't  goin'  by,  is  he.^" 

"  No,  he  's  turnin'  in.  I  '11  go  out  an'  see  if  he 
won't  drive  into  the  barn."  He  passed  her  to 
get  his  hat;  but  he  laid  a  hand  on  her  shoulder 
and  said,  "Darn  the  ministers!" 

"There!  there!"  said  Mary.  They  were 
friends  again. 

The  old  lady  "clipped  it"  about  the  kitchen 
and  set  out  a  dish  of  red  apples,  and  a  pitcher  for 
John  to  get  the  doctor  a  glass  of  cider,  if  he 
would.  When  the  two  men  came  in,  she  was 
waiting  for  them  in  a  smiling  expectation.  The 
doctor  was  a  young  man  with  sandy  hair  and 
knowing  spectacles. 

"  How 's  the  nicest  woman  in  the  world  ?  "  he 
asked  of  Mrs.  Buckham. 

Her  mouth  relaxed,  in  spite  of  her. 

"  There !  there ! "  she  said.  "  You  let  me  take 
your  hat.  John,  you  get  his  coat  off.  He 's 
'most  froze." 

"No,  I'm  not,"  said  the  doctor,  standing  in 


36  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

front  of  the  stove  and  regarding  them  as  if  they 
were  "own  folks"  whom  he  had  found  after 
long  absence.  "I'm  warm  all  through  the 
minute  I  get  in  here.  John,  you  old  sinner,  are 
you  still  going  to  live  forever?" 

Old  John  grinned  at  him,  but  he  answered 
obstinately:  "Yes,  I  be  goin'  to  live  forever, 
unless  I  miss  my  calculations,  an'  I  don't  see  no 
signs  on  't." 

"  Took  out  your  patent  yet  ?  "  asked  the  doctor. 

Mrs.  Buckham  passed  him  the  apples,  and 
he  split  one  with  a  twist  of  his  strong  hands. 

"Going  to  keep  the  stock  all  to  yourself,  or 
do  you  think  you  could  let  the  rest  of  us  come  in 
for  a  share  or  two?" 

John  stole  a  look  at  his  wife. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Buckham  ? "  asked  the 
doctor.  "  You  look  guilty ;  been  stealing  sheep  ?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what 's  the  matter  of  him,"  said 
the  wife.  Yet  old  John  was  not  afraid;  fair- 
weather  signals  were  in  her  look.  "  He  's  been 
talkin'  to  the  minister  about  livin'  forever,  an'  I 
had  to  set  by  an'  hear  it." 

The  doctor  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"  Talked  to  the  minister,  did  you,  John  ?  "  he 
asked. "  Would  n't  back  down  a  peg,  would  you  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  back  down  when  I  'm  in  the 
right,"  said  old  John  sulkily. 

"I  bet  you  ain't.     Say,  John,  what  you  going 


OLD  IMMORTALITY  37 

to  do  all  the  time  you  're  living  forever  ?  You 
don't  s'pose  it  '11  kind  of  pall  on  you  after  a 
while,  do  you?" 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  live  forever  all  in  one  day," 
said  old  John  scornfully,  as  if  he  accepted  a 
trifling  argument.  "I  ain't  got  to  take  it  like  a 
dose  o'  bitters.  There  '11  be  one  day,  an'  then 
there'll  be  another  day,  an' that's  all  there  is 
about  it." 

"And  first  you  know,  you '11  find  you've  lived 
forever.  Well,  I  hope  it  '11  turn  out  as  pleasant 
as  you  think." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it 's  goin'  to  turn  out 
pleasant  or  not,"  said  John.  "That  ain't  what 
I  'm  layin'  my  plans  for.  I  'm  jest  goin'  to  do  it, 
that 's  all  —  I  'm  goin'  to  be  here.  Some  things 
about  it  are  kinder  pleasant.  Last  May  I  was 
over  to  Abel  Tolman's  when  he  was  settin'  out 
some  young  apple-trees.  Abel 's  a  year  young- 
er 'n  I  be.  *  What 's  the  use  ? '  says  he.  '  They 
won't  bear  for  three  years,  an'  mebbe  I  shan't 
be  alive  to  eat  'em.'  " 

"  Yes,  an'  what  did  father  do  then  ?  "  said  the 
old  wife.  There  was  a  clinging  fondness  in  her 
tone.  "He  came  home  an'  brought  up  one  o' 
them  late  russets  out  o'  the  suUar,  an'  eat  it  an' 
went  out  an'  planted  the  seeds." 

"  Yes;  I  did,"  said  John.  "  An'  I  says  to  my- 
self, '  Them  seeds  '11  come  up  an'  I  '11  watch  'em 


38  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

grow,  an'  when  it  comes  time  I  '11  graft  'em,  an' 
I  '11  see  'em  blow  an'  see  'em  rot  for  all  Abel 
Tolman.'  An'  Abel  Tolman  could  do  the  same 
if  he  had  any  seem  to  him." 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  should  n't  wonder 
if  you  did,  you  're  such  an  obstinate  old  dog. 
Now  I  must  go  along.  Mrs.  Buckham,  I  saw 
your  niece  this  morning." 

"  She 's  sick!"  said  the  old  lady,  in  responsive 
fright. 

"No,  she 'snot.     Her  little  girl's  sick." 

"There,  there!  Mary!"  said  old  John.  He 
put  out  a  hand  to  her,  and  she  drew  a  step 
nearer  and  rested  her  fingers  on  his  arm. 

"What  is  it.^"  she  asked  the  doctor. 

"Well,  she's  got  a  cold  on  her  lungs." 

"  There  's  lots  of  lung  fever  'round,"  trembled 
the  old  lady.  "  That  little  creatur' !  John,  you 
harness  up  an'  take  me  right  over  there." 

John  sat  down  by  the  fire. 

"I  shan't  harness  up  an'  I  shan't  take  you 
over  there,"  said  he.  "  Doctor,  you  look  here. 
She  's  been  up  three  nights  this  week  with  the 
Fosters,  an'  she 's  all  beat  out.  If  anybody 's 
goin'  to  Mandy's,  I  will.  I  can  wash  dishes  an' 
I  can  set  up  nights.  Mary,  you  know  I  can. 
Did  n't  I  do  it  that  other  winter  John  was  down 
in  Maine  loggin',  an'  you  was  over  to  the  Fos- 
ters' bringin'  'em  through  the  measles?" 


OLD  IMMORTALITY  39 

The  old  wife  stood  by  the  fire,  her  hands 
trembling  and  soft  beseechment  in  her  face. 
The  doctor  went  up  to  her,  and  stroked  her 
shoulder. 

"Look  here,"  said  he,  "I  guess  he 's  right  for 
once.  You  're  pretty  well  run  down  with  the 
Fosters"  — 

"She  's  all  beat  out,"  John  growled. 

"  If  you  get  over  there  you  '11  have  a  fit  of  — 
homesickness.  You  just  let  your  husband  go 
and  see  how  things  are.  I  '11  take  him  over  my- 
self, this  afternoon,  and  he  can  spend  one  night 
anyway.  The  big  Foster  boy  '11  stay  with  you, 
won't  he  ?     And  I  '11  drive  round  in  the  morn- 

ing." 

The  old  wife  cried  briefly  over  the  "little 
creatur'  "  sick  without  her,  but  she  was  curi- 
ously tired ;  so,  with  an  abatement  of  spirit  that 
affected  her  with  a  mild  wonderment,  as  it  did 
her  husband,  she  yielded,  and  in  half  an  hour 
the  two  men  had  driven  away.  As  they  were 
jingling  out  of  the  yard,  old  John  laid  his  mit- 
tened  hand  on  the  reins.  The  doctor  pulled  up. 
The  husband  turned  a  troubled  face  back  to  the 
house,  where  the  slender  figure  stood  in  the 
doorway,  erect  and  purposeful,  and  yet  some- 
how appealing. 

"Say,  Mary,"  he  called,  " you 're  goin' to  be 
all  right,  ain't  you?" 


40  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"  Course  I  'm  all  right,"  she  answered,  with 
the  thin  sweetness  of  her  tender  voice.  "You 
won't  get  there  'fore  dark." 

That  was  a  week  of  snow.  John  stayed  at 
Mandy's  and  did  chores,  and  the  doctor  brought 
him  daily  news  of  his  wife.  She  was  well.  She 
was  tired.  Then  she  was  ill.  The  baby  was 
out  of  danger,  but  John  ceased  to  think  of  the 
baby  in  that  moment  of  alarm.  He  followed 
the  doctor  to  the  sleigh,  and  took  the  place  be- 
side him.  For  half  the  way  neither  of  them 
spoke.  Then,  as  they  were  flying  along  the 
Evergreen  Mile,  where  woods  darken  the  road 
on  both  sides,  old  John  said,  in  an  unmoved 
voice : 

"I  s'pose  it 's  on  her  lungs?" 

"Yes,"  returned  the  doctor. 

There  was  another  space  of  hurrying  flight, 
and  then  old  John  remarked: 

"When  the  old  parson  had  it,  he  was  out  of 
his  head." 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor  gently,  flicking  at  the 
horse.     "She  won't  know  you." 

"How  long  did  he  hold  out.?" 

"Parson?" 

"Yes." 

"Three  days." 

Mrs.  Foster  was  at  the  kitchen  stove,  when 
they  went  in,  stirring  something  in  a  saucepan. 


OLD  IMMORTALITY  41 

Her  broad  back,  saluting  old  John,  gave  him 
that  pang  of  distaste  struck  out  in  us  when  we 
find  even  a  kindly  alien  inheriting  our  home. 
She  turned  on  them  her  mild  face,  now  creased 
with   worriment. 

"There  ain't  any  change,"  she  said  to  the 
doctor,  briefly,  in  answer  to  his  look.  He  nod- 
ded, walked  into  the  bedroom,  and  closed  the 
door  behind  him. 

Old  John  took  off  his  coat  and  hat,  and  hung 
them  in  their  places  with  a  dull  remembrance  of 
the  old  wife's  play  at  anger  over  his  untidy  ways. 
Then  he  waited  by  the  stove,  warming  his  cold 
hands;  and  Mrs.  Foster,  after  another  look  at 
him,  drew  a  chair  toward  him,  but  did  not 
speak.  The  doctor  came  out,  preoccupied  and 
grim,  and  without  a  word  to  either  of  them, 
walked  out  of  the  house.  The  old  man  followed 
him  to  the  sleigh,  and  stood  there,  his  hair  blow- 
ing in  the  wind.  Tears  were  in  his  eyes.  His 
mouth  worked. 

"God  A'mighty!"  he  broke  out,  when  the 
doctor  gathered  up  the  reins.  "  Ain't  you  goin' 
to  speak?" 

"I'll  be  back  by  seven,"  said  the  doctor. 

Old  John  stood  there  for  a  moment  watching 
him  drive  into  the  west,  where  there  was  a  line 
of  saffron  light.  It  was  an  unfriendly  world. 
Even  the  sky  seemed  strange.     He  stood  there 


42  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

with  the  cold  aloofness  of  it  pressing  upon  his 
heart,  and  rousing  in  him  the  sickness  of  ac- 
cepted grief.  Then  he  crept  into  the  kitchen, 
where  there  was  no  sound  but  the  humming  of 
the  kettle  on  the  stove.  He  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the 
bedroom  door.  Mrs.  Foster  sat  by  the  bedside, 
her  kind  eyes  bent  on  the  pathetic  figure  there, 
her  hand  on  Mrs.  Buckham's  wrist.  She  looked 
up,  at  the  creaking  of  a  board,  and  rose  respon- 
sive, with  a  motion  bidding  him  take  her  place. 
He  did  it,  terrified  lest  Mary  should  be  roused 
and  greet  him  with  unrecognizing  eyes.  But 
she  did  not  stir,  and  he  sat  there  while  the  dusk 
fell  and  neighbors  stole  into  the  kitchen  with 
cautious  feet.  The  doctor  came  and  went,  and 
in  the  evening  a  watcher  took  Mrs.  Foster's 
orders,  and  there  was  tea  at  midnight  and  food 
eaten  with  a  hushed  solemnity.  The  day 
dawned  in  a  wintry  glow,  and  she  was  no  better. 
Old  John  stumbled  to  the  kitchen  lounge,  and 
covering  himself  with  his  army  overcoat,  fell 
asleep.  That  forenoon  the  minister  came. 
Old  John  was  sitting  over  the  fire,  his  hands 
hanging  between  his  knees,  his  head  drooped 
over  them.  He  looked  up  and  nodded,  and  the 
minister  laid  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"I  saw  Doctor  Braintree  in  the  post-office," 
said  the  minister. 

"Yes,"  said  old  John,  "I  think 's  likely." 


OLD  IMMORTALITY  43 

The  minister  hesitated.  "Shall  I" —  he 
said.     "Could  I  see  her?" 

"No." 

"  I  was  afraid  not.     May  I  pray  with  you  ?  " 

"Do's  ye  like,"  said  old  John  listlessly  — 
"do's  ye  like." 

When  the  prayer  was  over,  the  minister  stood 
there  unhappily  drawing  on  his  gloves  and  long- 
ing to  comfort  his  poor  flock.  Old  John  looked 
at  him  with  dull  eyes. 

"  You  need  n't  fret  yourself  about  my  livin' 
forever,"  he  said  bitterly.  "Makes  me  laugh 
to  think  on't.     It's  all  over  an'  done." 

"What's  over.?"  asked  the  minister. 

"  What  I  said  about  livin'  forever.  You  can 
tell  'em  all.  You  can  git  up  in  meetin'  an'  tell 
'em  if  you  want.     Tell  'em  old  John 's  give  it 

"That  isn't  important,"  said  the  minister. 
"It  doesn't  matter  how  long  we  live." 

"It  does,  too,"  said  old  John  fiercely.  "Don't 
tell  me  it  don't  matter.  Not  when  the  only 
creatur's  took  away  that  made  ye  live?  You 
look-a-here.  She 's  goin'  to  die.  If  there 's  any 
place  for  her,  there 's  a  place  for  me,  an'  my 
place  is  there  an'  nowher's  else." 

"Living  or  dying,"  said  the  minister  softly, 
"we  are  the  Lord's." 

"No  wonder  they  hooted  an'  laughed,"  old 


44  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

John  went  on,  in  the  same  tone  of  dull  retro- 
spection. "They  said  everything  died  an'  was 
changed  into  suthin'.  I  never  thought  o'  her 
dyin'.  We  've  done  everything  together  for  over 
forty  year.  We  've  'most  breathed  together.  I 
s'pose  I  thought  if  I  kep'  alive  it  'd  keep  her 
alive,  too.  But  I  can't.  I  ain't  got  no  more 
power  ag'inst  the  way  things  go  than  if  I  was  a 
drop  o'  water  in  the  sea." 

"We  shall  be  changed,"  said  the  minister. 

"  She  's  got  to  have  her  powder,"  said  John, 
rising,  and  the  minister  went  away. 

Another  day  dragged  by,  and  at  dusk  the 
doctor  came  on  old  John,  with  his  milk  pails, 
plodding  in  from  the  barn.  This  was  the  third 
visit  for  the  day,  and  John  had  not  expected 
him.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  not  waited 
outside  the  bedroom  door  to  hear  the  verdict. 
When  he  saw  the  doctor  the  strength  of  his  arms 
failed  him.  He  set  down  his  pails  and  waited. 
Again  the  west  was  yellow.  To  the  doctor  the 
light  was  lovely.     He  called  out  as  he  came: 

"Well,  Old  Immortality,  feel  as  if  you  were 
in  the  first  quarter  of  eternity  or  'long  about  the 
full.?" 

Old  John's  face  had  the  immobility  of  wonted 
grief.  "It 's  gone  out  o'  me,"  he  said.  "The 
peth  has  all  gone  out  o'  me." 

"No,   it   hasn't,   either,"   said   the   doctor. 


OLD  IMMORTALITY  45 

"It's  only  run  down  into  your  boots.  See 
here ;  I  did  n't  tell  you  what  I  thought  this 
morning.  I  know  it  now.  She 's  going  to 
live." 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  the  old  man 
could  draw  the  world  back  into  his  vision. 

"Live?"  he  repeated.  "Is  Mary  goin'  to 
live?" 

"  Of  course  she  is.  You  don't  suppose  we  've 
had  this  fight  for  nothing?" 

Old  John  turned  upon  him  a  face  exquisitely 
radiant  of  hope.  His  hand  shook  as  he  laid  it 
upon  his  trembling  mouth,  and  the  doctor 
threw  one  arm  about  his  shoulder. 

"  We  '11  feed  her  up,"  said  he.  "  She  '11  know 
you  fast  enough.  To-morrow  you  can  go  on 
living  forever." 

Old  John  took  off  his  hat  and  stood  there 
bareheaded  to  the  sky.  "  I  'm  goin'  to  do  what 
the  rest  do,"  he  said.  "It's  better.  Stay  a 
little  while  an'  then  travel  the  same  road.  What 
if  I  'd  lived  to  set  under  them  apple-trees  we 
talked  about,  an'  set  there  all  alone  ?  No.  I  'm 
goin'  the  app'inted  way." 

Three  weeks  after  that  the  pale  little  old 
woman  sat  by  the  window,  not  near  enough  for 
any  draught  to  strike  her,  but  so  that  she  could 
see  old  John  tinkering  the  gate,  and  looking  up 
to  satisfy  his  eyes,  from  time  to  time,  that  she 


40  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

was  there.     Young  Tolman   drove   up  for  a 
moment's  halt,  and  called  to  him: 

"  Father 's  got  over  that  spell  o'  his.  He 
wanted  I  should  tell  you  he  wa'  n't  goin'  to  hand 
in  his  cheeks  yet  a  while." 

Old  John  lifted  himself  from  his  labor,  laid 
the  hammer  on  the  gate,  took  off  his  hat,  and 
passed  a  hand  over  his  forehead.  "Well,"  he 
returned  moderately,  "you  tell  him  it's  the  road 
we  've  all  got  to  travel." 

"That 's  new  doctrine  for  you,"  said  young 
Tolman.     "  I  thought  you  're  goin'  to  live  for- 
ever.    Could  n't  ye  git  your  patent.?" 
"I  ain't  goin'  to  apply." 
"Give  it  up?     Can't  ye  resk  it?" 
The  light  of  controversy  lighted  up  John's 
face.     "  I  could  if  I  'd  a  mind  to,"  said  he.    "  All 
is,  I  've  made  up  my  mind  to  train  with  the  com- 
pany." 


BACHELOR'S  FANCY 


BACHELOR 'S  FANCY 

Cynthia  Gale  sat  by  the  window  in  the  long 
shed  chamber,  her  hands  at  momentary  ease. 
She  was  a  sHght,  sweet  creature,  with  a  delicate 
skin,  and  hair  etherealized  by  ashen  coverts. 
Her  eyes  were  dark,  and  beauty  throbbed  into 
them  with  drifting  thoughts.  Cynthia  was 
tired.  She  had  been  at  work  at  the  loom  since 
the  first  light  of  day,  and  now  she  had  given  up 
to  the  languor  of  completed  effort,  her  head 
thrown  back,  her  arms  along  the  arms  of  the 
chair,  in  an  attitude  of  calm.  Her  hair  had 
slipped  from  its  coil,  and  fallen  at  the  sides  of 
her  face  in  gentle  disarray.  She  was  very 
lovely. 

The  room,  the  scene  of  her  toil  and  resting, 
was  dark  with  age  and  significant  in  tokens  of  a 
disused  art.  The  loom  stood  well  in  the  centre, 
its  great  upright  beams  obstructing  the  light 
from  window  to  window.  All  about  were  the 
lesser  implements  of  a  weaver's  trade :  the  linen 
wheel,  the  reels  and  swifts.  On  a  chest  were 
skeins  of  indigo-blue  yarn  Cynthia  had  dyed, 
and  near  by,  the  flaxen  thread  she  had  un- 
earthed from  an  ancient  hoard  under  the  rafters. 


50  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

At  last,  she  knew  how  to  weave.  She  had 
walked  a  weary  way  in  the  pursuit  of  her  trade, 
and  now  she  had  reached  the  first  of  many  goals. 

The  stillness  of  the  autumn  day  made  a  great 
world  about  her  where  everything  was  happy 
because  everything  was  busy.  A  woodpecker 
settled  on  the  locust  outside,  and  began  drum- 
ming. She  looked  out  at  him  from  the  idleness 
of  a  well-earned  rest,  and  smiled.  It  seemed  to 
her  a  wonderful  earth  where  there  was  so  much 
to  do.  From  first  to  last,  she  saw,  creation 
moved  and  toiled,  and  she,  too,  strove.  With- 
out conscious  thought,  she  felt  the  strength  and 
beauty  of  the  twisting  chain. 

Cynthia  had  come  to  happiness  by  a  long 
road.  Her  first  memories  were  of  the  poor- 
house  near  the  sea,  where  her  mother,  a  sad 
waif  out  of  the  drift  of  life,  had  been  swept,  to 
die.  Cynthia  knew  nothing  about  her  father, 
except  that  he  drank  and  played  the  violin. 
People  said  he  invented  things :  what  things  she 
never  heard.  He  was  clever  with  his  hands  and 
brain;  but  nothing  he  had  was  used  to  his  own 
advantage.  He  was  one  of  life's  pensioners. 
Cynthia,  growing  up  at  the  poorhouse,  seemed 
to  have  no  more  to  do  with  life  as  it  is  than  he. 
She  did  the  housework  set  her  as  her  portion, 
with  an  absent  care,  and  then  escaped  into  the 
open  for  some  mysterious  sustenance  that  she 


BACHELOR'S  FANCY  51 

understood  as  little  as  the  people  who  watched 
her  ways.  There  were  hours  when,  tramping 
inland,  she  lay  prone  under  the  pines  in  the 
pasture,  smelling  at  life,  and  very  happy.  There 
were  more  when  she  sat  looking  at  a  great  island 
of  fern,  entranced  by  something  she  could  not 
apprehend,  and  had  no  need  to,  because  feeling 
was  enough.  Though  she  did  her  tasks,  she 
was  called  lazy,  and  she  lived,  in  a  sense,  apart 
from  people,  until  one  day  Andrew  Gale,  driving 
about  to  buy  cattle,  met  her  in  the  country  road 
as  she  was  coming  home,  like  Ruth  from  her 
gleaning,  only  that  Cynthia's  arms  were  piled 
with  golden-rod  instead  of  grain.  Her  eyes 
were  brimming  with  still  happiness.  Her 
cheeks  had  a  bloom  over  their  summer  tan. 
Andrew  caught  his  breath  and  stared  again. 
The  next  day,  after  patient  watching,  he  found 
her  by  the  sea,  and  again  he  met  her  when  she 
went  to  gather  grapes.  In  a  month  he  married 
her  and  took  her  home  to  the  great  house  where 
he  had  lived  alone  since  his  mother's  death,  with 
only  old  Hannah  to  do  the  work  in  a  perfect 
fashion  that  left  him  lonelier  than  before,  in  the 
solitude  made  by  her  deaf  ears. 

Cynthia  blossomed  like  a  flower,  and  from 
some  inner  secret  of  being  she  felt  like  one. 
This  was  like  growing  in  a  garden  with  fructi- 
fying soil,  the  sun  upon  her,  and  gentle  rains,  and 


52  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

one  great  tree  to  shade  her  from  too  strong  efful- 
gence. Andrew  was  the  tree.  He  was  a  silent 
creature,  the  emotion  in  him  hidden  by  a  fine 
reserve;  but  he  tended  and  protected  her  until 
she  grew  worshipful  of  him  in  a  way  neither  of 
them  quite  realized.  All  Cynthia's  capacity  for 
love  bloomed  out  in  a  fervor  that  made  her 
vivid,  with  a  charm  added  to  her  beauty.  When 
they  had  been  married  a  few  months,  old  Han- 
nah died,  and  then  Cynthia,  shrinking  from  a 
new  presence  in  their  intimate  solitude,  did  the 
work  alone.  She  threw  it  off  easily  enough, 
without  heart  or  fancy,  and  very  swiftly,  to  give 
her  time  to  be  with  Andrew  in  the  fields  or  dur- 
ing his  trips  over  the  countryside.  Housework, 
to  her  mind,  was  a  dull  means  to  life,  only  made 
tolerable  because  Andrew  was  satisfied  with 
everything  she  did.  It  was  devoid  of  grace,  not, 
like  weaving,  a  road  to  happy  fantasy.  In  spite 
of  it,  she  kept  the  purely  untrammeled  habit  of 
life  which  lies  in  a  perfect  freedom,  with  love  at 
the  end  of  each  day's  work.  Again  her  estate 
seemed  to  her  like  that  of  the  flowers  of  the 
field.  She  had  nothing  to  do  but  live  and 
bloom. 

When  she  had  been  married  a  year,  her  own 
individual  passion  came  upon  her.  One  day 
she  went  up  into  the  shed  chamber  in  search  of 
an  old  saddle  Andrew  remembered  as  one  of  the 


BACHELOR'S  FANCY  53 

family  holdings,  and  found  herself  in  a  mysteri- 
ous workshop.  This  was  the  weaving  room. 
It  had  a  strange  look  of  waiting,  of  holding 
secrets  it  was  ready  to  divulge,  of  keeping  a 
strange  silence  it  might  some  time  break.  In- 
stant recognition  laid  hold  on  her.  At  first  it 
seemed  curiosity ;  then  it  grew  into  something 
more  piquing.  Thrown  upon  a  bench,  as  if  the 
last  weaver  had  left  it  there,  was  a  book  written 
in  a  delicate  yet  unformed  hand,  in  faded  ink 
upon  a  yellowed  page.  She  turned  it  swiftly. 
There  were  the  patterns  for  weaving  the  old 
blue  coverlets  of  which  the  house  already  had  a 
store.  The  names  made  her  breathless  with 
their  sound  of  homely  poesy:  Bachelor's  Fancy, 
Girl's  Love,  Primrose  and  Diamonds,  Chariot 
Wheels  and  Church  Windows,  Pansies  and 
Roses  in  the  Wilderness.  There  were  full  direc- 
tions in  the  faded  hand,  and  the  patterns  had 
been  made  in  the  careful  drawing  of  one  who 
rules  her  lines  and  works  from  a  pathetic  igno- 
rance. Cynthia  ran  downstairs  tumultuously, 
and  unfurled  the  book  before  Andrew  where  he 
sat  mending  the  harness. 

"See  here!"  she  cried.  "See  what  I've 
found." 

Andrew  looked  up  with  an  abstracted  interest. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  " that 's  Argentine's  book." 

"Who  was  Argentine.^" 


54  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

**  She  was  great-grandmother  Pyncheon's  sis- 
ter. She  was  a  great  weaver.  She  stuck  to  it 
when  everybody  else  had  give  it  up.  She  was 
goin'  to  be  married,  but  he  was  lost  at  sea,  an' 
after  that  she  never  did  much  but  weave.  Them 
coverlets  you  set  such  store  by  were  all  hers." 

Cynthia  had  treasured  the  coverlets  with  an 
unreasoning  love.  Their  pattern  pleased  her. 
The  close  firm  weave  awoke  respect,  beside 
more  modern  fabrics.  New  passion  stirred  in 
her  from  that  first  interest. 

"O  Andrew!"  she  breathed,  "do  you  s'pose 
I  could  weave  coverlets.?" 

It  was  not  Andrew's  custom  to  deny  anything 
in  their  little  world. 

"I  guess  so,"  said  he  indulgently.  "I  guess 
you  could  do  anything  you  set  out  to.  Mebbe 
old  Foss  could  put  you  on  the  road." 

Old  Foss  lived  a  mile  away,  in  a  little  house 
filled  with  treasures  of  ancient  usage  which  he 
seemed  to  prize  only  because  collectors  came  at 
intervals  and  fixed  a  market  value  in  his  mind. 
Next  day  Andrew  hitched  up  and  went  down  to 
borrow  him;  but  Foss  clung  to  his  hearthstone. 
He  could  weave,  he  said,  but  weaving  had  gone 
out.  He  guessed,  with  cotton  cloth  as  cheap  as 
it  was  now,  there's  no  need  of  wastin'  anybody's 
time  over  a  loom.  Next  day,  Cynthia  herself 
went  down  with  her  book  of  patterns,  and  he 


BACHELOR'S  FANCY  55 

gave  her  a  few  grudging  rules.  Then  she 
started  on  her  ignorant  way,  and  to-day  was  the 
culmination  of  long  desire.  Bachelor's  Fancy 
was  in  process  of  growth.  It  was  only  a  ques- 
tion of  time  when  she  should  have  a  coverlet  of 
her  own  to  hoard  with  Argentine's. 

The  silence  in  the  shed  chamber  grew  more 
drowsy  with  the  mounting  day.  Suddenly  Cyn- 
thia was  aware  that  she  was  more  than  half 
asleep,  nodding  over  the  verge  of  something 
almost  tangible,  it  was  so  deep  and  still.  She 
was  hungry,  too,  but  that  she  scarcely  knew.  A 
slice  of  bread  and  a  cup  of  milk  had  made  her 
early  breakfast,  and  since  then  this  breathless 
achievement  had  lifted  her  outside  the  pale  of 
daily  needs.  But  now  she  rose  and  went  sway- 
ing down  the  stairs,  her  eyelids  heavy.  The 
house  below  was  empty.  Andrew  had  been 
away  a  week  with  the  threshing  machine,  leaving 
the  next  neighbor  to  milk  and  "feed  the  crit- 
ters." Cynthia  had  half  promised  to  go  over  to 
the  neighbor's  house  to  sleep,  but  the  passion 
for  weaving  had  so  engrossed  her  that  now  she 
scarcely  knew  light  from  darkness,  and  the  short 
intervals  in  her  work  it  seemed  foolish  to  spend 
away  from  home.  Besides,  she  missed  Andrew 
less  if  she  stayed  in  their  familiar  places,  where 
the  walls  were  reminiscent  of  him.  In  the 
bottom  of  her  heart  was  always  a  crying  hunger 


56  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

for  him,  an  aching  loneliness.  But  she  could 
bear  it.  She  had  the  weaving  and  a  child's 
eager  hope  to  bring  him  the  work  of  her  own 
hands. 

Down  there  in  the  kitchen  she  looked  about 
and  smiled  a  sleepy  smile  at  its  disorder.  Her 
plate  and  cup  were  on  the  table,  and  there  was  a 
pile  of  dishes  in  the  sink.  Even  the  milk  pails 
were  unwashed,  and  she  did  shrink  momentarily 
under  the  guilt  of  that. 

"O  my  soul!"  said  she. 

Ashes  had  blown  across  the  hearth,  and  the 
kitten  had  rolled  an  egg  from  the  table  to  the 
rug.  Through  the  open  bedroom  door  her  un- 
made bed  was  yawning.  It  was  sweet  and 
clean.  The  sun  lay  brightly  on  the  tick,  and 
the  autumn  breeze  blew  on  snowy  sheets.  Yet 
it  was  disorder,  and  Cynthia  knew  it,  as  any 
housewife  would  know,  or  any  man  used  to  the 
rigor  of  routine.  She  was  a  slattern.  Her 
house  tattled  the  tale  even  to  her  own  eyes. 
Nevertheless,  she  had  achieved  Bachelor's 
Fancy,  and  her  mouth  curled  in  a  smile  that 
widened  to  a  pretty  yawn.  She  stretched  herself 
out  on  the  lounge  and  went  to  sleep. 

There  was  a  step  on  the  threshold,  impatient, 
swift.  Cynthia  opened  her  eyes  from  deep 
beatitude  to  a  flood  of  noon  sunlight  in  the  dis- 
ordered room,  and  a  figure  standing  in  the  midst 


BACHELOR'S  FANCY  57 

of  it.  She  rose  to  her  elbow,  pushing  back  her 
hair.     Then  she  gave  a  cry: 

"Andrew!  Andrew!  O  Andrew!"  She  was 
on  her  feet,  on  tiptoe  to  fly  to  him,  but  his  face 
arrested  her.  "Andrew!"  she  called,  "what 
is  it.?" 

He  had  had  a  hard  week.  A  man  had  failed 
them,  and  he  had  been  doing  double  work,  feed- 
ing the  machine  in  dust  and  heat  and  for  two 
days  with  a  beard  of  barley  in  his  eye.  They 
had  taken  the  threshing  by  the  job,  and  he  had 
put  it  through  madly,  to  get  home  to  Cynthia, 
spurred  always  by  the  certainty  of  her  loneliness, 
and  half  ashamed  of  his  childish  worry  over  her. 
He  was  dead  tired,  he  was  hungry,  dirty,  hot. 
Even  his  face  was  blackened  from  the  dust,  and 
little  moist  runnels  had  streaked  and  whitened 
it.  The  sight  of  him  amazed  her,  and  she  stood 
there  a-wing,  ready  to  go  to  him,  her  child's 
cheeks  creased  with  drowsiness  and  her  great 
eyes  dark.  But  something  about  his  set  mouth 
and  glowing  eyes  forbade  her  nearer  greeting. 

"O  Andrew!"  she  breathed  again,  "I  did  n't 
think  you  'd  come." 

"  You  did  n't  think  I  'd  come  ?  Why  did  n't 
you.?^" 

Instantly  there  flashed  into  her  mind  a  story 
she  had  heard  about  the  Gale  temper.  Andrew 
was  a  slow  man,  the  neighbors  said,  "till  you  got 


58  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

him  roused.  Then  you  better  stan'  from  un- 
der." Andrew  had  owned  it  to  her  once,  with  a 
shamefaced  grin.  But  after  his  confession  they 
had  both  laughed,  and  she  had  felt  his  arms 
about  her  in  that  mutual  understanding  which 
was  more  than  human  trust,  but  a  something 
ineffable  neither  could  define.  Now  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  there  was  a  barrier  between 
them,  invisible  but  potent.  She  did  not  dare 
approach  him. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  think  so  ? "  he  repeated. 

She  faltered  in  her  answer.  "You  said 
'twould  be  a  week." 

"  It 's  been  a  week.  I  said  I  'd  be  here 
Thursday  noon." 

"Yes"  —  she  opened  her  mouth  in  futile 
protest  and  then  closed  it.  But  the  truth  came 
to  her,  and  she  told  it  with  a  childlike  confidence 
that  it  would  be  the  same  to  Andrew  as  to  her. 
"I  got  weavin'.     I  forgot." 

"You  got  weavin'!"  he  repeated.  Then  he 
looked  about  the  room,  and  its  disorder  made 
satirical  commentary  on  her  words.  But  Cyn- 
thia had  gained  courage.  The  mention  of  her 
new  triumph  reminded  her  that  she  had  a  joy  to 
bring  him. 

"O  Andrew!"  she  breathed,  "I've  learned 
it.  I  've  learned  Bachelor's  Fancy.  Mine  's 
as  good  as  Argentine's." 


BACHELOR'S  FANCY  59 

Andrew  stood  looking  at  her  for  a  moment, 
her  distended  eyes,  her  pretty  mouth  where  the 
smile  was  just  beginning,  and  would  come  if  he 
invited  it.  But  at  that  moment  the  smile  was 
not  for  him.  It  meant  a  child's  absorption  in  a 
foolish  game,  and  oblivion  of  him  for  whom 
there  were  hard  work  and  barley  beards.  He 
turned  abruptly. 

"  Well,"  he  announced,  "  I  've  got  no  more  to 
say." 

He  had  taken  a  step  toward  the  open  door, 
but  her  voice  followed  him.  It  was  sharp  with 
quick  alarm. 

"Andrew,  where  you  goin'?" 

He  turned  upon  her. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  where  I  'm  go  in'.  I  'm  goin'  on 
to  Trumbull's  with  the  thrashers,  an'  git  a  meal 
o'  victuals." 

"  But,  Andrew,  I  '11  git  dinner.  I  can,  in  no 
time.     There 's  eggs.   You  like  eggs,  Andrew." 

"Mebbe  you  don't  remember  what  we  said 
that  last  mornin'  I  set  off.  I  told  ye  I  'd  bring 
Miles  an'  t'  other  men  to  dinner.  It  ain't  been 
out  o'  my  mind  a  minute.  For  two  days  I  've 
been  houndin'  'em  to  finish  up,  so  's  we  could 
git  here  this  noon.  What  do  you  s'pose  I 
wanted  to  do  it  for  ?  I  wanted  to  show  off.  I 
wanted  to  let  'em  see  how  well  we  were  fixed. 
An'  this  kitchen  don't  look  as  if  there  'd  been  a 


60  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

meal  o'  victuals  cooked  in  it  sence  the  time  o' 
Noah.     It  ain't  a  kitchen;  it 's  a  hurrah's  nest." 

"O  Andrew!"  She  backed  piteously  away 
from  him,  with  a  sudden,  alien  sense  of  a  house 
not  her  own.  She  seemed  to  herself  in  that  in- 
stant to  be  not  his  wife,  but  a  guest  by  whom  his 
hospitality  had  been  abused.  Then  again  she 
trembled  into  speech.  "  Maybe  you  've  done 
with  me,  Andrew.  Maybe  you  don't  want  me 
to  stay  here  any  more." 

"  I  don't  care  what  ye  do  nor  where  ye  go," 
said  Andrew  blindly.  "  I  'm  goin'  to  Trum- 
bull's." He  strode  out  and  away  down  the 
path,  and  she  heard  him  hailing  the  threshers  at 
the  gate.  They  answered  jovially,  and  then 
the   heavy  team  went  grinding  on. 

She  sat  down  upon  the  couch  and  looked 
about  her.  The  sun  came  cruelly  in  at  the  win- 
dow, and  showed  the  room  in  all  its  dusty  dis- 
array. The  dazed  spot  in  her  brain  cleared,  and 
left  her  vulnerable  to  pain.  She  saw  his  house 
as  he  had  seen  it,  and  for  the  instant  felt  how  he 
had  hated  it  and  her.  With  that  certainty  she 
met  also  the  ultimate  pang  of  youth  which 
knows  when  its  hour  is  spoiled,  and  says,  "  This 
is  the  end."  There  was  but  one  thing  to  do. 
She  must  take  herself  away.  She  went  to  the 
cupboard  and  reached  to  the  upper  shelf  where 
old  Hannah  used  to  keep  her  toothache  drops. 


BACHELOR'S  FANCY  61 

There  was  laudanum  enough  in  them,  Andrew 
had  said,  to  kill  an  army.  It  would  kill  her. 
But  as  she  stood  there  in  the  stillness  with  the 
bottle  in  her  hand,  distaste  came  upon  her  for 
the  ugliness  of  such  a  death,  and  that  moment, 
sounding  in  her  ears,  she  heard  the  sea. 
Whether  it  was  because  she  had  begun  her  life 
by  it,  or  through  some  quickness  of  the  mind, 
running  over  the  possibilities  of  a  decent  death, 
she  remembered  a  little  mate  of  hers  who  had 
been  playing  in  a  dory  when  the  anchor  slipped, 
and  had  drifted  out,  never  to  be  seen  again. 
And  now  the  sea  was  calling  her. 

"You  gi'  me  a  match,  won't  ye?"  called  old 
Nancy  Hutchens  from  the  door.  "I  won't 
come  in.  I  'm  all  over  muck  from  the  swamp 
down  there.  I  crossed  by  the  willers,  to  save 
steps." 

Cynthia  tucked  the  bottle  back  in  its  place 
and  crossed  the  kitchen  swiftly,  taking  a  card 
of  matches  as  she  went.  Old  Nancy  stood 
there  on  the  door-stone,  a  squat  figure  with  one 
shoulder  higher  than  the  other.  She  had  the 
imposing  equipment  of  an  aquiline  nose  and 
sound  white  teeth  at  seventy.  Her  thick  gray 
hair  was  drawn  back  into  a  knot,  and  the  lines 
in  her  brown  face  were  crisp  and  deep.  A  life, 
solitary  in  itself,  and  yet  spent  among  people  in 
a  drifting  way,  had  touched  her  face  with  little 


62  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

quizzical  shades  of  meaning.  Her  cold  pipe 
was  in  her  hand,  waiting  to  be  filled. 

"  Here  's  the  matches,"  said  Cynthia. 

Nancy  took  them  with  a  mechanical  touch, 
and  remained  looking  at  her. 

"Law!"  said  she,  "'t  ain't  wuth  it." 

"What  ain't?"   repeated   Cynthia. 

"  What  you  've  got  on  your  mind,  whatever 
't  is.  Wait  a  day  an'  it  '11  be  a  thing  o'  the  past. 
If  't  ain't  in  a  day,  't  will  be  in  a  year,  or  ten 
year,  or  a  lifetime.  Wait  long  enough,  an'  the 
whole  on  us  '11  be  underground." 

"Yes,"  said  Cynthia,  "we  shall  be  under- 
ground." But  her  mind  was  not  with  the  old 
woman,  but  on  her  own  preparations  for  flight. 
The  tawdry  room  still  troubled  her,  the  slat- 
ternly picture  he  must  find  when  he  came  home. 
She  would  leave  his  house  in  order  for  him. 
"Look  here,  Nancy,"  said  she  suddenly,  "you 
stay  the  rest  o'  the  day  an'  help  me  clean." 

Nancy  smiled  satirically.  She  looked  up  at 
the  blue  sky,  sown  with  flying  white,  and  then 
over  the  line  of  upland  where  her  fate,  every  day 
renewed,  was  waiting  for  her. 

"I  don't  clean  for  myself,"  she  said.  "My 
bed  ain't  been  made  nor  slep'  in  for  a  fortnight. 
I  been  trampin'  the  countryside." 

"I '11  give  you  a  dollar!" 

"I  ain't  got  much  use  for  dollars  till  winter 


BACHELOR'S  FANCY  63 

time,  an'  then  I  guess  I  shall  be  provided  for. 
I  got  a  passel  o'  herbs  to  sell  this  fall."  But 
she  was  searching  Cynthia's  face  with  her 
impersonal  glance,  and  her  mind  altered. 
"  Law,  yes ! "  said  she.  "  It 's  as  good  a  way 
o'  passin'  time  as  any  other.  You  let  me  pull 
off  these  muddy  boots.  You  got  a  pair  o'  rub- 
bers I  can  scuff  round  in?  Where  you  goin' 
to  begin  .^" 

With  the  word,  she  had  caught  up  an  old  pair 
of  Andrew's  shoes  beside  the  shed  door,  and 
slipped  her  feet  into  them.  Cynthia  left  her, 
and  went  flying  upstairs  with  an  unregarding 
haste.  She  went  first  to  the  shed  chamber,  and, 
without  a  glance  at  her  precious  handiwork, 
closed  the  door  upon  it.  Then,  running  to  the 
other  rooms  in  turn,  she  breathed  dull  satisfac- 
tion at  finding  them  in  comfortable  array. 
There  was  the  west  chamber;  she  had  put  that 
in  order  when  Aunt  Patten  had  been  expected, 
a  week  before,  to  spend  the  night,  and  the  other 
rooms  had  to  match  it  because  Aunt  Patten 
would  go  mousing  round.  Cynthia  had  laughed 
with  Andrew,  in  the  doing,  over  so  patently 
setting  her  scene  for  a  meddler.  But  Aunt 
Patten  had  diverged,  on  her  visiting  way,  and 
Cynthia's  pains  had  seemed  unnecessary. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Nancy  was  awaiting 
her.     She  had  an  air  of  large  leisure;  yet  in 


64  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

some  subtle  fashion  her  man's  attitude  showed 
the  reserve  strength  in  her  and  inspired  content. 

"What  be  I  goin'  to  fly  at  fust?"  she  asked 
indulgently,  as  at  a  madness  not  her  own. 

"You  sweep  the  sittin'-room,"  returned  Cyn- 
thia. "When  the  dust  is  settled,  you  can  do 
the  winders.     I  '11  begin  on  the  bedroom." 

Cynthia  did  not,  it  seemed  to  her,  think  at  all 
as  she  went  about  her  work,  doing  it  swiftly  and 
still  with  the  far-off  sound  of  the  sea  in  her  ears. 
She  was  simply  a  different  creature  from  that 
other  happy  woman  who  had  been  weaving 
coverlets  that  morning.  She  had  brought  upon 
herself  a  colossal  punishment.  She  never 
stopped  to  wonder  whether  the  punishment  were 
just.     It  was  simply  there. 

At  one  she  and  Nancy  had  some  eggs  and  tea, 
and  in  mid  afternoon  they  met  in  the  kitchen, 
each  about  her  task.  Cynthia  was  baking  now, 
cream-o'-tartar  biscuits  and  custard  pie,  and 
Nancy  was  cleaning  the  woodwork  with  great 
sweeps  of  her  lean  arm. 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  was  such  a  driver,"  she 
said  at  length,  as  she  sat  on  the  top  of  the  step- 
ladder,  taking  a  pull  at  her  pipe. 

"I  guess  I  ain't  been,"  said  Cynthia,  her 
pretty  brows  in  a  painstaking  frown  over  the 
scalloped  edges  of  the  pie.  "  I  ain't  done  much 
housework." 


BACHELOR'S  FANCY  65 

"You  like  it?"  asked  Nancy. 

A  swift  terror  fled  across  Cynthia's  face,  like 
a  beating  wing.  At  that  moment  she  liked 
housework  better  than  anything  on  earth.  It 
was  not  a  cold  routine.  It  had  at  last  a  poignant 
meaning.  It  meant  Andrew  and  her  home. 
But  she  answered  stolidly,  "I  guess  so." 

"  If  you  've  took  it  on  yourself,  you  've  got  to 
like  it,"  said  Nancy  philosophically,  rising  and 
knocking  the  ashes  from  her  pipe.  "  You  hand 
me  up  that  bar  soap.  That 's  the  wust  o'  men- 
folks.  Once  you  've  got  'em,  you  got  to  slave 
for  'em.  Lug  'em  or  leave  'em !  But  don't  git 
'em,  I  say.  Look  here,  now!  Fifty  year  ago 
come  November,  I  said  I  'd  marry  a  man  down 
Sudleigh  way.  I  went  to  stay  a  spell  with  his 
mother.  Well,  sir!  I  come  home  an'  I  broke  it 
off.  'I  ain't  a-goin'  to  spend  my  days  makin' 
sugar  gingerbread,'  says  I.  *No,  sir!  Nor  cut- 
tin'  it  out  in  an  oak-leaf  pattern, —  not  by  a  long 
chalk!'" 

"  He  likes  sugar  gingerbread,"  said  Cynthia  to 
herself.     *'  I  guess  I  've  got  time  to  make  some." 

"I  warrant  ye  the  colored  pop'lation  never 
felt  freer  'n  I  did  when  I  see  him  walkin'  away 
down  the  path  arter  I  told  him  't  was  broke  off," 
chuckled  Nancy,  moving  the  step-ladder  along. 
"  I  never  had  a  minute's  sorrer  over  it, —  not  a 
second." 


66  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"  I  guess  I  '11  put  in  a  mite  o'  ginger,"  said 
Cynthia,  stirring  breathlessly.  "Do  you  use 
ginger,  Nancy?" 

"  Law!  I  dunno  what  ye  do,  it 's  so  long  sence 
I  've  tried  any.  I  don't  concern  myself  with 
sweet  trade.  I  can  make  as  good  a  meal  as  I 
want  out  o'  crackers  an'  cheese  an'  wash  it  down 
with  a  drink  o'  water  out  o'  the  well.  Look 
here !  did  it  ever  come  into  your  head  that  every- 
body ain't  called  to  preach,  an'  everybody  ain't 
called  to  marry.?" 

"Some  ain't  fit,"  said  Cynthia  bitterly,  her 
passionate  mind  on  her  own  defects,  "  they  ain't 
fit  to  marry." 

"  'T  ain't  only  that, —  they  're  like  a  bird  in  a 
cage.  You  look  here !  men  folks  think  they  're 
dull  sometimes,  settled  down  in  a  pint  measure 
with  one  woman.  Lordymighty!  the  women  's 
dull,  too,  on'y  they  don't  let  on.  Pious  little 
devils !  they  go  round  washin'  dishes  an'  moppin' 
up  under  the  sto',  an'  half  on  'em  wants  to  be 
trampin'  like  me,  an'  t'  other  half  dunno  what 
they  want.  Keep  out  on 't,  I  say!  keep  out 
on't!" 

Nancy  lifted  her  voice  in  a  tuneful  stave,  the 
words  satirically  fit,  but  Cynthia  was  not  listen- 
ing. The  notes  fell  upon  her  like  a  patter  of 
unregarded  rain,  as  she  creased  her  ginger- 
bread and  beat  her  mind  back  from  futile  won- 


BACHELOR'S  FANCY  67 

derment  over  her  own  plight  when  Andrew 
should  be  here  alone. 

"The  house  has  got  to  be  jes'  so,"  pursued 
Nancy.  "  The  woman 's  got  to  be  jes'  so. 
They  can  come  home  all  over  gurry,  but  she  's 
got  to  have  on  a  clean  apron  an'  her  hair  slicked 
up  to  the  nines.  They  can  set  all  the  evenin' 
huskin'  together  an'  hootin'  over  old  stories,  an' 
come  stumblin'  in  when  they  git  ready,  an'  find 
doughnuts  an'  pie  set  out  complete.  What 's 
fair  for  one  's  fair  for  another,  I  say." 

"No,  it  ain't!"  cried  Cynthia,  suddenly  awak- 
ened. She  stood  straight  and  slender  in  the 
middle  of  her  kitchen.  Defensive  fires  burned 
hotly  in  her  eyes.  "  Nancy,  I  ain't  goin'  to  have 
such  talk  in  here.  I  can't  stand  it.  You  think 
of  him  gettin'  all  over  dust  an'  dirt  workin'  like  a 
dog.  You  think  of  it,  Nancy!  It 's  his  house. 
It 's  no  more  'n  right  he  should  have  it  the  way 
he  wants  it.  I  should  like  to  know  if  he  ain't 
goin'  to  have  anything  the  way  he  wants  it.^" 
Her  voice  choked  in  passionate  championship  of 
the  man  whose  pride  was  hurt. 

But  Nancy  only  gave  a  derisive  chuckle. 
"Law!"  said  she.  "You  needn't  worry.  I 
guess  they  '11  look  out  for  themselves.  I  never 
see  a  man  yet  but  had  time  enough  for  that." 

At  five  o'clock  the  house  was  in  order  and 
Nancy  had  started  on  her  homeward  way,  a 


68  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

dollar  in  her  pocket,  and,  despite  some  ruthless 
indifference  on  her  part,  a  basket  of  food  in  her 
hand.  Cynthia  dismissed  her  with  an  unwitting 
solemnity. 

"  Good-by,  Nancy,"  said  she.  "You  've  been 
a  real  help  to  me.  I  don't  know  how  I  should 
have  got  through  it  if  it  had  n't  been  for  you." 

"It 's  clean  as  a  ribbin,"  Nancy  called  back 
cheerfully.  "But  land!  cleanin' up 's  nothin'. 
Trouble  is  to  keep  it  so.  Well,  I  '11  be  pokin' 
along." 

Cynthia  stood  and  watched  her  well-knit 
figure  swinging  on  between  the  willows  that 
marked  the  road.  Then  she  turned  back  to  her 
clean  house  for  a  last  look  and  the  renewed  cer- 
tainty of  its  perfect  state.  She  walked  delicately 
about  the  kitchen,  lest  a  grain  of  dust  should 
mar  the  speckless  floor.  The  food  not  yet 
cooled  from  the  oven  was  in  the  pantry.  All 
through  the  lower  rooms  there  was  the  fragrance 
of  cake  and  bread.  It  was  a  house  set  in  order, 
and  finding  it  perfect,  she  made  herself  sweet 
and  clean,  and  changed  her  working  dress  for  a 
crisper  calico.  In  the  doing,  she  thought  sol- 
emnly how  she  had  once  helped  bathe  a  child 
that  had  died  at  the  poorhouse,  and  prepare  it 
for  burial.  This  body  of  hers  was  also  being 
prepared,  and  though  she  had  no  words  to  say 
so,  it  seemed  to  her  the  body  of  her  love.     And 


BACHELOR'S  FANCY  69 

all  the  time  the  sea  kept  calling  her,  with  its  as- 
surances of  manifold  and  solemn  refuge. 

Presently  she  was  ready  to  go.  She  had  made 
the  clothing  she  had  slipped  off  into  a  little 
bundle,  to  leave  none  but  fresh  things  behind 
her,  and  now  she  took  it  in  her  hand  and  stepped 
out  at  the  front  door.  That  she  closed,  but  the 
windows  were  still  open.  It  was  better  that 
storms  should  invade  the  house  than  that  he 
should  find  it  inhospitably  shut.  Day  and  night 
could  be  trusted  with  their  welcome  to  him. 
But  turning  from  the  door,  she  smelled  her  gar- 
den, and  its  autumn  bitterness  of  breath  awoke 
in  her  a  final  pang  of  homesickness.  She  laid 
down  her  bundle  and  hurried  round  to  the  well, 
to  draw  bucket  after  bucket  of  water  and  drench 
the  roots  she  had  tended  since  the  spring.  It 
was  a  separate  good-by  to  every  one.  Here 
were  the  delicate  firstlings  whose  day  had  long 
been  over,  and  the  hollyhocks  that  had  made  the 
summer  gay.  Dahlias  and  asters  were  the  ones 
to  keep  this  later  watch,  but  she  sprinkled  them 
impartially,  whether  they  were  to  bloom  again 
or  wither  till  the  winter's  spell.  The  moon  was 
rising  behind  the  wooded  hill,  and  there  was 
suddenly  a  prophetic  touch  of  frost  in  the  air. 
She  stood  for  a  moment  listening  to  the  stillness, 
recognizing  life  as  if  it  all  came  flooding  in  on 
her  at  once,  only  to  retreat  like  a  giant  wave  and 


70  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

wash  some  farther  shore.  Her  brain  appre- 
hended what  her  tongue  could  never  say.  She 
understood  the  meaning  of  service  and  harmoni- 
ous living.  It  was  no  more  dull  to  her  now  than 
daily  sunrise.  She  looked  at  Andrew's  house, 
builded  by  another  Gale  over  a  hundred  years 
ago.  It  meant  more  than  a  shelter.  It  was  the 
roof  of  love,  the  nest  of  springing  hopes.  Yet, 
being  a  child  at  heart,  she  could  not  stay  after 
he  had  found  her  for  one  day  unworthy,  and  she 
was  too  young  to  know  how  storms  may  pass. 

The  man  came  heavily  along  the  darkened 
road  and  reached  the  gate  as  she  did.  She  saw 
him  and  dropped  her  bundle  in  the  shade  of  the 
lilac  at  the  fence.  Andrew  did  not  speak.  He 
threw  open  the  gate,  stepped  in,  and  put  his 
arms  about  her.  He  held  her  to  him  as  we  hold 
what  is  almost  lost  to  us  through  our  own  lax 
grasp;  but  when  he  spoke  to  her,  she  did  not 
hear,  and  when  he  loosed  his  clasp  to  look  at  her, 
she  sank  down  and  would  have  fallen. 

"Cynthy,  for  God's  sake!"  he  cried,  and  his 
voice  recalled  her.  Then  she  gained  her  feet,  he 
helping  her.  "What  is  it,  dear.?  what  is  it, 
dear.?"  he  kept  saying,  and  she  answered  him 
with  her  tremulous  breath  upon  his  cheek. 
Presently  they  went  up  the  path  together,  and  in 
at  the  front  door.  "  By  George,  don't  it  smell 
good!"  said  Andrew.     His  voice,   in  nervous 


BACHELOR'S  FANCY  71 

joviality,  was  shaking,  like  his  hands.  "  Le'  me 
git  a  light,  honey.  I  've  got  to  look  at  you.  Got 
to  make  sure  you're  here!" 

The  blaze  from  the  shining  lamp  struck  full 
on  her,  and  Andrew  caught  his  breath.  Cyn- 
thia looked  like  the  angel  of  herself.  Her  tired 
face,  overlaid  by  joy,  was  like  that  of  a  child 
awakened  from  sleep  to  unexpected  welcome. 
She  seemed  an  adoring  handmaid,  incredulous 
of  the  beauty  of  her  task.  Andrew  felt  the 
wistfulness  of  her  air,  the  presence  of  things 
unknown  to  him.  He  went  over  to  her  and 
drew  her  nearer. 

"  You  knew  I  'd  come, "  he  said.  "  You  knew 
I  could  n't  Stan'  it  after  I'd  been  ugly  to  you. 
Look  at  this  house !  You  fixed  all  up,  an'  made 
it  neat  as  wax.  I  started  just  as  they  set  down 
to  supper,  an'  put  for  home.  I  've  been  scairt 
'most  to  death  all  the  afternoon.  I  dunno  what 
I  thought  would  happen  to  you,  but  I  had  to 
come." 

"  I  've  cleaned  the  house,"  said  Cynthia,  like 
a  child.     "I  got  old  Nancy." 

"  Yes,  dear,  yes,"  he  soothed  her.  "  You  knew 
I  'd  come.  You  knew  I  would  n't  stay  away 
a  night  after  I  broke  your  heart.  You  tell  about 
your  weavin',  dear.     I  want  to  hear  it  now." 

"My  weavin'.?"  repeated  Cynthia  vaguely. 
The  words  roused  her  a  little  from  her  happy 


72  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

dream,  and  for  one  luminous  instant  she  felt  the 
significance  of  all  the  threads  that  made  the  web 
of  life.  She  laughed.  "  'T  was  only  Bachelor's 
Fancy,"  she  said.  "I  learned  it,  that's  all. 
There  's  lots  o'  things  I  'd  ruther  do.  You  go 
in  the  pantry,  dear,  an'  look." 

Andrew  left  her  with  a  kiss  that  was  like  meet- 
ing, not  good-by.  But  as  he  took  the  lamp  from 
the  table,  Cynthia  slipped  out  at  the  front  door. 

"Where  you  goin'.^"  he  called. 

"  Only  out  to  the  lilac,"  she  answered  throb- 
bingly.     "I  dropped  somethin'  there." 

While  he  lingered  for  her,  she  came  back  and, 
as  she  ran,  tossed  her  little  bundle  into  the  closet 
under  the  stairs.  The  hues  of  youth  were  on 
her  face.     Her  eyes  were  wet  and  glad. 

"  I  'm  terrible  hungry,  too,"  she  told  him. 
"Come!  there's  sugar  gingerbread." 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM 

"I  HAVE  often  thought,"  said  the  young  min- 
ister, "that  your  house  might  be  called  the  Cave 
of  Adullam." 

Miss  Lucretia  Blaine  adjusted  her  glasses,  as 
if  they  might  help  her  to  some  mental  insight, 
and  then  illogically  directed  her  puzzled  gaze  at 
him  over  their  top.  She  was  short  and  plump, 
with  brown  eyes  and  an  abundance  of  bright 
hair  lapsing  into  dun  maturity.  There  was  so 
much  of  the  hair  that  it  was  difficult  to  manage, 
and  she  had  wound  it  in  a  sort  of  crown.  So  it 
happened  that  she  carried  her  head  in  a  fashion 
that  looked  like  haughtiness  and  belied  the  pa- 
tient seeking  of  her  dove's  eyes.  She  was  not 
much  given  to  reading,  even  Bible  reading,  and 
the  minister's  pictorial  talk  perplexed  her.  It 
was  vaguely  discomfiting,  in  a  way,  much  like 
the  minister  himself.  He  was  a  short  and  mus- 
cular man,  with  a  scholarly  forehead,  a  firm 
mouth,  and  eyeglasses  magnificently  set  in  gold. 
He  had  always  disturbed  Miss  Lucretia,  coming 
as  he  did  after  a  mild  and  fading  pulpit  dynasty. 
She  could  never  understand  how  he  knew  so 
much,  at  his  time  of  life,  about  human  trials  and 


76  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

their  antidotes;  his  autocracy  over  the  moral 
world  was  even  too  bracing,  too  insistent. 
Now  she  took  off  her  glasses  and  laid  them 
down,  regarding  him  with  that  blurred,  soft- 
ened look  which  is  the  gift  of  eyes  unused  to 
freedom. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  she,  "as  I  rightly 
understand." 

"The  Cave  of  AduUam!"  repeated  the  min- 
ister, in  his  pulpit  manner.  "  David  was  there, 
if  you  remember,  in  the  time  of  his  banishment, 
'and  every  one  that  was  in  distress,  and  every 
one  that  was  in  debt,  and  every  one  that  was 
discontented  gathered  themselves  unto  him.'  It 
was  a  refuge.  Your  house  appeals  to  me,  in  a 
figurative  sense,  as  being  somewhat  the  same 
thing.  The  poor,  the  unfortunate,  flee  hither 
to  you.     This  is  the  Cave  of  AduUam." 

New  trouble  added  itself  to  Miss  Lucretia's 
look.  This  unnecessary  classifying  merely 
greatened  her  accepted  load.  She  only  saw  her- 
self pottering  about,  doing  her  chores  and  serv- 
ing the  people  who  were  mysteriously  meted  out 
to  her.  Life  was  very  simple  until  it  became 
complicated  by  words. 

"Well,"  said  she  vaguely,  "I  guess  there  's  a 
good  many  such  places,  if  all  was  known." 

"Yes,"  returned  the  minister,  "we  all  have 
some  earthly  refuge." 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM         77 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  Cousin  'Cretia  's 
got ! "  came  a  young  voice  from  the  doorway, —  a 
woman's  voice,  melodious,  full.  There  stood 
Lucrece,  a  distant  relative  defined  within  some 
limit  of  cousinship.  She  was  tall  and  strenuous, 
a  girl  all  life  and  the  desire  of  life.  Her  pose 
had  an  unconsidered  beauty;  her  muscles, 
whether  in  rest  or  action,  obeyed  according  pur- 
poses and  wrought  out  harmony.  The  minister 
caught  his  breath  as  her  face  flowered  upon  him 
like  some  exotic  bloom.  He  had  a  young  wife 
at  home,  and  her  he  truly  cherished ;  yet  no  one 
could  look  upon  Lucrece  and  continue  quite 
unmoved. 

Miss  Lucretia  only  smiled  at  her.  She  was 
used  to  the  incursions  of  the  young  and  passion- 
ate thing.  Dealing  with  the  hot  moods  Lucrece 
engendered  seemed  more  or  less  like  feeding  a 
tame  leopard  in  the  kitchen. 

"I  'd  like  to  know,"  continued  Lucrece  rap- 
idly, in  her  moving  contralto,  "what  refuge 
Cousin  'Cretia 's  had!  There's  great-uncle 
Pike  in  the  parlor  chamber.  He  's  got  dropsy. 
He  likes  it.  There 's  Cousin  Mary  Poole  in  the 
west  room.  She  's  got  nerves.  Cousin  'Cre- 
tia 's  had  to  hear  her  clack  from  sunrise  to  sun- 
set for  going  on  nine  years.  Mary  Poole  and 
Uncle  Pike  have  got  their  refuge,  both  of  'em. 
Where's  Cousin  'Cretia's?" 


78  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"There,  there!"  counseled  Lucretia.  "You 
come  in,  dear,  an'  se'  down." 

The  minister  cleared  his  throat.  He  was 
momentarily  dashed  by  this  onslaught  of  the 
human,  and  the  natural  man  in  him  agreed  with 
Lucre ce.     Yet  officially  he  could  not  concur. 

"All  these  trials,"  said  he,  with  no  abatement 
of  his  former  emphasis,  "will  be  stars  in  the 
crown  of  her  rejoicing." 

"Oh!"  returned  the  girl  bitingly.  She  came 
in  and  stood  by  the  mantel,  her  head  held  high, 
as  if  it  carried  a  weight  she  scorned.  "But 
what  about  now  ?  They  're  having  their  refuge 
now.     What  about  Cousin  'Cretia's  ?  " 

"Crechy!"  came  a  wheezing  voice  from 
above.     "Crechy,  you  step  up  here  a  minute ! " 

This  might  have  been  a  signal  for  concerted 
effort.  Another  voice,  dramatically  muffled, 
issued  from  the  west  room. 

"Crechy,  you  mind  what  I  say!  You  come 
in  here  first!     Crechy,  you  come!" 

Lucretia  rose  in  haste  and  made  her  capable 
way  out  of  the  room,  fitting  on  her  glasses  as  she 
went. 

"There!"  said  Lucrece  triumphantly,  having 
seen  the  proving  of  her  point,  "they're  both 
calling  on  her  at  once.  That 's  what  they  do. 
They  're  neck  and  neck  when  it  comes  to 
trouble.    If  one  finds  a  feather  endwise  in  the 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM         79 

bed,  the  other  falls  over  a  square  in  the  carpet. 
And  Cousin  'Cretia  's  got  to  smooth  it  all  out." 

The  minister  felt  his  poverty  of  resource. 
The  young  creature  interrogating  him  at  white 
heat  would  have  flouted  his  divine  common- 
places. He  knew  that,  and  decided,  with  true 
humility,  that  he  should  only  be  able  to  meet 
her  after  a  season  of  prayer. 

"  I  cannot  account  for  it,"  he  said,  rising  with 
dignity.  "  I  fear  I  must  be  going.  Please  say 
good-by  to  Miss  Lucretia." 

The  girl  accompanied  him  to  the  door  with  all 
the  outward  courtesy  due  him  and  his  oflSce ;  but 
her  mind  seemed  suddenly  to  be  elsewhere. 
She  shook  hands  with  him;  and  then,  as  he 
walked  down  the  path  between  beds  of  velvet 
pinks,  her  fighting  blood  rose  once  more,  and 
she  called  lightly  after  him, "  What  about  Cousin 
'Cretia.?" 

But  he  made  no  answer,  nor  did  she  wait  for 
one.  On  the  heels  of  her  question  she  turned 
back  into  the  sitting-room  and  flung  herself  at 
full  length  on  the  broad  lounge,  where  she  lay 
tapping  the  white  line  of  her  teeth  with  an  im- 
patient finger.  Presently  Lucretia  came  down 
the  stairs  and,  entering  the  room,  gave  a  quick 
look   about.     Her  eyes   interrogated   Lucrece. 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl  carelessly,  "he  's  gone. 
He  thinks  I  'm  awful." 


80  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

Lucretia  sat  down  again  by  the  window  and 
took  up  her  work.  There  was  an  abiding  still- 
ness about  her.  She  was  very  palpably  a  citizen 
of  the  world,  and  yet  not  of  it,  as  if  some  film  lay 
between  her  and  the  things  that  are. 

"Have  both  of  'em  had  a  drink  of  water?" 
asked  the  girl  satirically. 

"Yes,  both  of  'em!" 

"Have  they  ordered  what  they  want  for 
supper  .^  " 

A  slow  smile  indented  the  corners  of  Lucre- 
tia's  mouth.  "Well,"  said  she  indulgently,  "I 
b'lieve  they  did  mention  it." 

"  I  bet  they  did !  And  to-morrow  it  '11  be  just 
the  same,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow.  It 's 
all  very  well  to  talk  about  Caves  of  AduUam. 
Where  's  your  cave.^" 

Lucretia  dropped  her  work  and  gazed  at  the 
girl  with  unseeing  eyes.  She  had  the  remote 
look  of  one  who  conjures  up  visions  at  will. 
"Don't  you  worry,"  said  she.  "I  don't  mind 
them  no  more  than  the  wind  that  blows." 

"Well,"  said  Lucrece  moodily,  "I  suppose 
everybody  's  got  to  have  something.  Only  it 
seems  as  if  you  had  everything.  They  all  come 
and  sponge  on  you.  So  do  I.  To-day  I  'm 
madder  'n  a  hatter,  and  I  put  for  you." 

Lucretia's  glance  returned  to  a  perception  of 
tangible  things. 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM         81 

"What  is  it,  Lucrece?" 

The  girl  spoke  with  the  defiance  of  one  who 
combats  tears. 

"I  'm  not  going  to  be  married." 

"Why  not?" 

"  All  the  money  Tom  saved  he  put  in  with  his 
father.  He  wants  it  out  now,  to  go  into  the 
lumber  business,  and  his  father  won't  let  him 
have  it.   And  Tom 's  got  nothing  to  show  for  it." 

Lucretia  sat  motionless,  a  slow  flush  rising 
into  her  face.  One  might  have  said  she  looked 
ashamed.  The  room  was  very  still.  A  bee 
buzzed  into  the  entry,  and  described  whorled 
circlets  of  flight.  The  sound  of  his  wandering 
was  loud,  out  of  all  proportion  to  its  significance. 
"That  means  putting  off  our  marrying  for  a 
year  or  two,"  said  Lucrece  indifferently.  Then 
having  cried  a  few  tears  and  angrily  wiped  them 
away  with  her  hand,  she  crushed  her  pink  cheek 
into  the  sofa  pillow  for  a  moment,  and,  as  if  she 
flung  aside  an  unworthy  mood,  rose  to  her  feet 
with  a  spring. 

"Tom  pretty  much  hates  his  father,"  said  she. 
"  He  's  ashamed  to  be  the  son  of  a  miser.  He  's 
afraid  he  might  catch  it.  But  he  need  n't 
worry.  Tom  's  as  good  as  they  make  'em." 
She  walked  to  the  door  and  then,  returning, 
stooped  over  Miss  Lucretia  and  kissed  the  top  of 
her  head.     "  Don't  you  mind,"  said  she.    "  It  '11 


82  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

all  come  out  right.  I  'm  just  like  them  two 
upstairs,  only  mine  's  temper  where  they  've  got 
nerves  and  dropsy.  Why,  Cousin  'Cretia,  what 
is  it.?" 

Two  tears  were  rolling  down  Lucretia's 
cheeks.  They  splashed  upon  her  hand.  Lu- 
crece  had  never  seen  her  look  so  moved  and 
broken. 

"  Why,"  said  the  girl,  "  you  taking  it  so  hard  as 
that,  just  my  being  married  ?    It 's  only  put  off." 

Lucretia  rose  and  folded  her  work  conclu- 
sively. Her  cheeks  were  pink  under  their  tears, 
and  her  voice  trembled. 

"  Don't  you  worry,  dear,"  said  she,  a  humor- 
ous smile  beginning  to  flicker  on  her  lips.  "I 
s'pose  I  can  have  my  mad  fit,  too,  can't  I? 
There!  you  run  along  now.  I  've  got  to  get  in 
the  clo'es." 

It  was  a  dismissal  not  to  be  gainsaid,  and 
Lucrece  went  wonderingly  away.  At  the  door 
she  hesitated. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  go  across  lots,"  said  she. 
"There  's  old  Armstrong  coming  up  the  road. 
I  can't  talk  to  him  as  I  feel  now."  She  took  the 
narrow  path  skirting  the  house  front,  and 
stepped  over  the  low  stone  wall  into  the  orchard. 
There  she  walked  away  with  a  lilting  motion, 
and  still  with  the  erect  pose  of  one  who  carries  a 
burden  lightly. 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM         83 

Miss  Lucretia  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
sunny  room,  so  still  that  all  the  little  noises  of 
the  day  seemed  loud  about  her.  There  was  the 
ticking  of  the  clock,  the  booming  of  bees  on  the 
jessamine  sprays,  and  chiefly  the  thickened  beat- 
ing of  her  heart.  Suddenly,  as  if  mounting 
thought  had  cast  her  forth  on  one  great  wave, 
she  hurried  out  of  doors  and  down  the  path  to 
the  gate.  There,  her  hand  on  the  palings,  she 
waited  for  Dana  Armstrong.  Yet  she  did  not 
glance  at  him,  as  he  came  striding  along  the 
road,  but  into  the  green  field  opposite,  and  again 
her  eyes  had  the  unseeing  look  of  one  to  whom 
visions  are  more  palpable  than  fact. 

Dana  Armstrong  was  over  sixty,  but  he  car- 
ried himself  like  a  youth,  with  the  free  step  and 
sinewy  vigor  of  one  whose  time  is  yet  to  come. 
And  still,  in  spite  of  that  assertive  strength,  the 
years  had  marked  him  with  their  telltale  tracery. 
His  cheeks  were  deeply  scored  with  long,  crisp 
lines ;  his  mouth  dropped  slightly  at  the  corners. 
The  gray  eyes  were  cold,  though  a  fanciful  mind 
might  have  found  in  them  some  promise,  how- 
ever unfulfilled,  some  hint  of  blue. 

"Dana  Armstrong,"  called  Miss  Lucretia, 
"you  come  here!     I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

He  quickened  his  walk,  his  eyes  warming  a 
little  at  sight  of  her.  She  swung  open  the  gate, 
and  he  stepped  inside. 


84  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"Anything  happened?"  he  asked  concern- 
edly. 

"No.     You  come  in  a  minute." 

She  preceded  him  along  the  path,  her  short 
steps  breaking  in  upon  the  time  of  his.  They 
crossed  the  sun-lighted  entry  into  her  sitting- 
room,  and  there  Dana  took  off  his  hat  with  a 
grave  deliberation  much  like  reverence.  It  had 
been  years  since  he  entered  this  room,  and  the 
memory  of  time  past  shook  him  a  little,  dulled  as 
he  was  by  the  routine  of  life  and  its  expediency. 

"Be  seated,"  said  Miss  Lucretia,  taking  her 
accustomed  place  by  the  window.  He  laid  his 
hand  upon  a  chair,  and  then  withdrew  it.  This 
had  been  Grandfather  Blaine's  chosen  spot,  and 
he  remembered  how  the  old  man  used  to  sit 
there  thumbing  over  his  well-worn  jokes  when 
Dana  Armstrong  came  courting  the  girl  Lucre- 
tia, all  those  years  ago.  He  could  not  have 
taken  the  chair  without  disturbing  some  har- 
mony of  remembrance;  so  he  sat  down  on  the 
sofa  where  Lucrece  had  lain,  and  held  his  hat 
before  him  in  his  stiff,  half-bashful  way. 

"I  hear  Tom  ain't  goin'  to  be  married  this 
year,"  said  Miss  Lucretia,  "him  and  my  Lu- 
crece ! "  Her  voice  came  from  an  aching  throat. 
It  sounded  harsh  and  dry. 

Armstrong  started  slightly. 

"Well!"  said  he. 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM         85 

"  I  'm  told  Tom's  money  's  in  with  yours,  an' 
you  won't  give  it  up  to  him." 

Dana's  eyes  darkened.  His  forehead  con- 
tracted into  those  Hues  she  remembered  from  a 
vivid  past,  when  his  face  made  her  one  book  of 
life,  to  be  conned  with  loyal  passion.  Yet  she 
was  not  looking  at  him  now;  there  was  no  need. 
Only  it  was  the  young  Dana,  not  the  old  one, 
who  sat  there.  That  gave  her  courage.  She 
could  throw  herself  back  into  that  time  when  no 
mischance  had  come  between  them,  and  speak 
with  the  candor  of  youth  itself,  which  scorns  to 
compromise.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
square  of  sunlight  on  the  floor.  Little  shadows 
were  playing  in  it,  and  once  the  bulk  of  a  hum- 
ming bird  swept  past.  The  sunlight  had  a  curi- 
ous look,  as  if  in  that  small  compass  lay  the 
summer  and  all  the  summers  she  had  lived,  wit- 
nesses now  to  her  true  testimony.  She  began  in 
an  unmoved  voice,  and  Dana  listened.  She 
seemed  to  be  speaking  from  a  dream,  and  inch 
by  inch  the  dream  crept  nearer  him,  and  gradu- 
ally enfolded  him  without  his  will. 

**  When  I  heard  that,  not  an  hour  ago,  I  says 
to  myself,  *Ain't  Dana  Armstrong  got  over  the 
love  o'  money  ?  Ain't  he  killed  that  out  of  him 
yet?'" 

"There,  there!"  said  Dana  hastily,  exactly  as 
he  had  used  to  check  her  years  ago. 


86  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"No,  it  ain't  any  use  to  say  'There,  there!'  " 
But  she  was  not  speaking  as  the  girl  was  wont  to 
speak.  The  girl  had  been  quick-tempered,  full 
of  beseeehings,  hot  commendation,  wild  re- 
proach. "  We  've  got  to  talk  things  over.  It 's 
a  good  many  years,  Dana,  since  you  an'  I  were 
goin'  to  be  married  that  fall,  an'  you  give  me  up 
because  my  sister  was  in  consumption,  an'  you 
would  n't  have  her  live  with  us." 

He  turned  full  upon  her,  and  seemed  to  ques- 
tion her  face,  the  stillness  of  her  attitude.  These 
were  strange  words  to  be  spoken  in  the  clear 
New  England  air.  They  shook  him,  not  only 
from  their  present  force,  but  because  they  held 
authority  from  what  had  been.  They  seemed 
to  be  joining  it  to  what  still  was,  and  he  felt  the 
continuity  of  life  in  a  way  bewilderingly  new. 
His  voice  trembled  as  he  answered  with  some 
passion : 

"I  didn't  give  you  up!" 

"No,  not  in  so  many  words.  You  only  said 
Lindy  might  live  for  years.  You  said  there  'd 
be  doctors'  bills,  an'  my  time  all  eat  up  waitin' 
an'  tendin' —  an'  so  I  told  you  we  would  n't  con- 
sider it  any  more.  An'  you  went  an'  married 
Rhody  Bond,  an'  she  helped  you  save  —  an'  you 
got  rich." 

The  words,  meagre  as  they  were,  smote  blight- 
ingly  upon  him.     He  saw  his  life  in  all  its  bar- 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM         87 

renness.  Yet  he  was  not  the  poorer  through 
that  revelation.  A  window  had  been  opened, 
disclosing  a  tract  of  land  he  had  hitherto  seen 
only  by  inches.  It  was  hopelessly  sterile, —  but 
the  window  was  wide  and  he  could  breathe, 
though  chokingly.  The  woman's  voice  sounded 
thin  and  far  away. 

"I  thought  when  I  lost  you  my  heart  broke. 
I  don't  know  now  what  happened.  Somethin' 
did ;  for  after  that  I  was  different.  For  I  did  set 
by  you.  I  knew  your  faults,  an'  they  'most 
killed  me :  that  is,  one  of  'em  did, —  your  lovin' 
money  so.  But  even  that  never  'd  ha'  separated 
us  if  it  had  n't  bid  fair  to  hurt  somebody  that 
could  n't  fight  for  herself.  Nothin'  could  ever 
have  separated  us."  She  spoke  recklessly,  as  if 
none  but  the  great  emotions  were  worth  her 
thought.  In  spite  of  outer  differences,  she  was 
curiously  like  the  young  Lucrece.  There  was 
the  same  audacity,  the  courage  strong  enough  to 
challenge  life  and  all  its  austere  ministrants. 
But  still  she  did  not  look  at  him.  If  she  had 
looked,  it  might  have  been  impossible  to  go  on. 

"I  didn't  give  you  up,  Dana  Armstrong," 
said  she.     "I  never  give  you  up  one  minute." 

The  man  leaned  forward  and  bent  his  brows 
upon  her,  over  burning  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean.?"  he  asked,  with  the 
harshness  of  emotion  leashed  and  held. 


88  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"I  never  give  you  up  one  minute.  When 
Lindy  died,  I  was  here  all  alone.  You  were 
married  then,  but  I  set  by  you  as  much  as  ever. 
I  did  n't  even  blame  you  for  choosin'  money 
instead  o'  me.  I  could  n't  blame  you  for  any- 
thing, any  more  'n  if  you  was  my  own  child. 
You  could  hurt  me.  You  could  n't  make  me 
blame  you."  Her  voice  ended  in  one  of  those 
lingering  falls  that  stir  the  heart.  It  was  quite 
unconsidered.  She  had  as  yet  no  purpose  in 
moving  him,  even  by  the  simplest  eloquence: 
only  her  own  life  was  eloquent  to  her,  and  she 
could  not  voice  it  save  with  passion. 

"  I  thought  it  all  over,"  she  said  rapidly,  like 
one  giving  long  considered  testimony.  "I 
thought  it  over  that  summer  you  an'  Rhody 
moved  into  the  new  house.  I  used  to  set  here 
nights,  with  the  moon  streamin'  in  through  the 
elms,  an'  consider  it.  I  knew  I  could  n't  give 
you  up,  an'  it  come  over  me  it  wa'n't  needful  I 
should.  I  prayed  to  God.  I  made  a  bargain 
with  Him.  I  said,  *  If  I  won't  speak  to  him,  nor 
look  at  him,  nor  sin  in  my  thoughts.  You  let  me 
have  some  part  of  him!'  An'  God  was  willin'. 
From  that  time  on  it  was  as  if  you  an'  me  lived 
here  together:  only  it  was  our  souls.  I  never 
touched  your  life  with  Rhody.  I  never  wanted 
to.  Only  every  day  I  talked  to  you.  I  told  you 
how  I  wanted  you  to  be  good.     I  tried  to  be 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM         89 

good  myself.  I  tried  to  do  all  I  could  for  them 
that  was  in  need.  But  I  never  lived  my  life 
with  'em,  even  when  I  was  tendin'  upon  'em  an^ 
gettin'  kind  of  achey  trottin'  up  an'  down  stairs. 
You  an'  me  were  always  together,  your  soul  an' 
mine.  The  minister  says  everybody  has  a  ref- 
uge. I  guess  he  'd  say  that  was  my  refuge. 
He  'd  say  't  was  my  cave."  Her  voice  broke 
upon  the  word,  and  she  laughed  a  little  in  a 
whimsical  fashion. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  his  face  soft- 
ened in  an  uncomprehending  sympathy.  But 
she  seemed  not  to  see  the  movement,  and  went 
on. 

"There  was  no  harm  in  it.  I  've  come  to  the 
conclusion  we  can  set  by  folks  as  much  as  we  've 
a  mind  to,  so  long  as  we  don't  clutch  an'  grab, — 
so  long  as  it 's  all  spirit.  I  don't  know  what 
spirit  is,  but  I  know  it 's  suthin'  we  've  got  to 
take  account  of  in  this  world,  same  as  any  other. 
Well,  I  went  with  you,  step  an'  step.  When 
little  Tom  was  born  I  could  have  eat  him  up,  I 
loved  him  so." 

Famished  mother-longing  had  come  into  her 
voice,  and  thenceforward  she  spoke  recklessly. 
Rehearsing  her  devotion  to  the  man,  she  bound 
herself  in  stiff er  phrasing;  when  it  came  to  the 
child,  she  could  name  the  great  name  and  feel  no 
shyness  over  it. 


90  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"Up  to  then,  I  'd  said  my  prayers  for  you. 
Then  I  had  the  boy  to  pray  for  —  him  an'  you. 
When  he  went  to  school,  he  was  stronger  'n' 
heartier  'n  any  of  'em,  an'  I  was  proud  of  him. 
When  he  begun  to  wait  on  my  Lucrece,  I  got 
sort  of  acquainted  with  him,  an'  I  says  to  myself, 
'He  don't  set  by  money  the  way  his  father  did.' 
An'  I  thanked  my  God  for  that." 

Dana's  hands  were  trembling.  He  put  up 
one  of  them  to  cover  his  betraying  mouth. 

"  I  kep'  near  you  every  step  o'  the  way,"  said 
Lucretia  mercilessly.  "  When  you  got  the  bet- 
ter o'  yourself  an'  give  the  town  that  school- 
house,  I  kneeled  down  an'  thanked  God.  When 
you  done  suthin'  mean,  I  tried  to  go  through  it 
with  you  an'  make  you  see  how  mean  it  was.  I 
ain't  been  away  from  you  a  minute,  Dana  Arm- 
strong, not  a  minute  all  your  life.  I  've  tried  to 
help  you  live  it  the  best  that  ever  I  knew  how." 

The  man  started  up  in  irrepressible  passion. 
"God!"  he  said  brokenly.  "If  I'd  only 
known!"  But  he  could  not  have  told  what  it 
was  he  should  have  known.  This  was  only  a 
blind  arraignment  of  a  sterile  past. 

"When  Rhody  died,"  said  the  woman,  with 
the  least  little  break  in  her  voice,  "I  guess  I 
dropped  away  a  mite.  I  could  n't  do  no  less. 
Seemed  as  if  't  would  be  stretchin'  out  my  hand 
to  you,  an'  that  I  never  did." 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM         91 

"  I  come  over  here  a  year  an'  a  day  after  she 
died,"  said  Dana  hotly.  "You  wouldn't  so 
much  as  walk  downstairs  to  see  me!" 

"No,"  answered  Lucretia  softly,  "I  would 
n  t. 

"You  would  n't  take  the  gift  of  me!" 

"Them  things  were  past  an'  gone,"  she  told 
him  gently,  as  if  she  feared  to  bruise  some  pite- 
ous memory.  "  There  's  a  time  for  all  things. 
The  minister  said  so  last  Sunday.  The  time  for 
some  things  ain't  ever  gone  by ;  but  for  some  it  is. 
If  you  an'  I  could  have  grown  old  together" — 
A  spasm  contracted  her  face,  and  it  was  a  mo- 
ment before  she  could  go  on.  "  But  we  are  old, 
an'  we  've  got  there  by  different  roads.  'T  would 
be  like  strangers  livin'  together.  But  our  souls 
ain't  strangers.  Mine  has  lived  with  you,  day 
in,  day  out,  for  forty  year." 

Pure  joy  possessed  her.  She  was  transfig- 
ured. Her  face  flushed,  her  eyes  shone,  each 
with  a  spark  in  it,  a  look  not  altogether  of  this 
earth.  She  was  radiant  with  some  undefined 
hope :  perhaps  of  that  sort  bred,  not  of  circum- 
stance, but  out  of  things  unseen.  The  man  was 
chiefly  puzzled,  as  if  he  had  been  called  on  to 
test  an  unsuspected  bond.  This  plain  speaking 
about  the  eternal  was  quite  new  to  him.  It  had 
an  echo  of  Sunday  talk,  and  yet  without  that 
weariness  attendant  on  stiff  clothes  and  lulling 


92  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

tunes.  He  seemed  to  be  standing  in  a  large 
place  where  there  was  great  air  to  breathe. 
Hitherto  he  had  been  the  servant  of  things  pal- 
pable. Now  it  began  to  look  as  if  things  were 
but  the  tools  of  Life,  and  Life  itself,  august, 
serene,  sat  there  in  the  heavens  beside  her 
master,  God,  in  untouched  sovereignty. 

"There!"  said  Lucretia  suddenly,  as  if  she 
broke  a  common  dream.  "  I  only  wanted  to  tell 
you  how  I  've  battled  to  have  you  do  what 's 
right.  I  don't  know  as  I  've  earned  anything 
of  you  by  battlin',  for  maybe  you  'd  ha'  for- 
bidden it  if  you  'd  had  your  way.  But  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  there  's  things  fightin'  for  your  soul, 
an'  you  better  think  twice  afore  you  kill  out  any- 
thing in  them  that 's  young.  Tom  an'  Lucrece 
—  they  've  got  it  all  before  'em.  You  let  'em 
come  together  afore  it 's  any  ways  too  late." 
The  note  of  pleading  in  her  voice  seemed  as 
much  for  herself  as  for  another.  She  might 
have  been  demanding  compensation  for  her 
years.  She  had  shown  him  the  late  blooming  of 
her  life,  for  him  to  justify.  Something  he  mys- 
teriously owed  her,  and,  with  that  obedience 
men  give  to  women  when  the  cry  is  loud  and 
clear,  he  knew  it  must  be  paid.  He  rose  and 
stood  regarding  her.  His  face  worked.  His 
eyes  held  blue  fire.  He  felt  young  again,  in- 
vincible.    But  though  thoughts  werecrowding 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM         93 

on  him,  he  had  only  one  word  for  them,  and  that 
her  name. 

"Lucretia!" 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  quietly. 

He  hesitated  and  then  broke  forth  blunder- 
ingly, like  a  boy.  "  Should  you  just  as  soon  I  'd 
come  in  here,  once  a  week  or  so.^" 

She  answered  as  a  mother  might  who  refuses 
because  she  must,  for  hidden  reasons. 

"  I  don't  think  we  've  any  call  to  see  much  of 
one  another.  We  've  both  got  a  good  deal  to 
think  over,  an'  if  Tom  an'  Lucrece  should  get 
them  a  house,  you  'd  want  to  run  round  often 
an'  set  with  them." 

He  bent  his  head  in  an  acquiescent  courtli- 
ness, and  went  haltingly  out  at  the  door.  Miss 
Lucretia  sat  there,  her  hands  dropped  loosely  in 
her  lap,  not  thinking,  but  aware  of  life,  as  if  the 
years  were  leaves  fluttering  down  about  her  in 
autumnal  air.  They  prophesied  no  denial,  nor 
hardly  yet  decay:  only  change,  the  prelude  to 
winter  and  then  again  to  spring.  She  sat  there 
until  a  voice  came  querulously: 

"Ain't  it  'most  supper  time  ?  You  come  up 
here !     I  '11  ventur'  you  forgot  to  blaze  the  fire ! " 

Next  morning,  a  little  after  ten.  Miss  Lucretia 
went  into  the  garden,  to  do  her  weeding.  The 
sun  lay  hotly  on  her  hair  and  burnished  it  to 
gold.     Her  cheeks  were  warm  with  sunlight  and 


94  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

her  hands  thick  coated  with  the  soil.  Life  and 
the  love  of  it  were  keen  within  her,  strong 
enough  to  grip  eternal  things,  sane,  common- 
place like  these  of  earth,  and  make  them  hers 
forever. 

The  gate  clanged,  and  then  there  came  a  rush 
of  skirts.  Lucrece  was  on  her  like  a  swooping 
wind. 

"Cousin  'Cretia!"  she  cried.  "Cousin  'Cre- 
tia!     Get  up  here!     I  've  got  to  speak  to  you." 

Miss  Lucretia  rose  and  found  the  throl3bing 
creature  ready  to  grasp  and  hold  her.  Young 
Lucrece  was  lovely,  like  the  morning.  The 
moodiness  of  yesterday  had  quite  gone  out  of 
her.  Sweet,  quivering  sentience  animated  her, 
obedient  to  the  call  of  life.  Her  beauty  clothed 
her  like  a  veil:  it  seemed  a  wedding  veil. 

"What  do  you  think?"  she  said  rapidly,  in  a 
tone  like  the  brooding  note  of  birds.  "Mr. 
Armstrong  's  paid  over  all  Tom's  money,  every 
cent.  And  he  's  given  him  the  deed  of  the  house 
in  the  Hollow.  And  this  morning  he  came  over 
and  kissed  me  —  old  Armstrong  did !  —  and  said 
he  hoped  we  'd  be  married  right  away.  I  'm 
awful  happy.  Cousin  'Cretia!" 

Lucretia  stood  there  holding  the  trowel  in  her 
earthy  hand.     Her  voice  dropped  liquidly. 

"Did  he.?"  she  said,  not  looking  at  Lucrece 
at  all.     "Did  he.?" 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM         95 

The  tension  of  her  tone  struck  keenly  on  the 
girl  and  moved  her  to  some  wonder. 

"  What  makes  you  so  pretty,  Cousin  'Cretia?  " 
she  asked,  half  timorous  because  the  other 
woman  seemed  so  far  away.  "What  makes 
you  speak  so?     Is  it  because  I'm  glad?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Lucretia  softly.  "An'  I  'm 
glad,  too!" 


A  WINTER'S  COURTING 


O-  THE      ^ 

UNIVERSITY 


A  WINTER'S  COURTING 

"Keep  the  knittin'  for  take-up  work,"  called 
Mrs.  Bourne  from  the  Sudleigh  stage,  where  she 
sat  regnant  upon  an  underpinning  of  bags  and 
packages.  "Tack  the  spread  as  soon  as  ever 
you  git  round  to  it.  Don't  you  leave  the  cake 
jar  open,  an'  don't  you  let  the  squashes  freeze." 

"I  '11  'tend  to  everything,"  cried  Myra,  with 
shrill  sweetness.     "  Good-by,  mother,  good-by !" 

Mrs.  Bourne  gave  a  stiff  nod  in  return  and  the 
stage  drove  on.  It  was  a  three-seated  vehicle, 
but  she,  the  only  passenger,  seemed  to  over- 
crowd it  by  her  portly  presence.  She  wore  the 
black  clothes  that  had  served  her,  since  her  hus- 
band's death,  for  intermittent  mourning,  and 
now  she  had  shrouded  her  face  from  the  Novem- 
ber wind  in  a  blue  barege  veil.  Mrs.  Bourne  was 
loyal  in  her  widowhood,  but  she  could  not  think 
the  worse  of  herself  for  this  trifling  inconsistency. 
It  argued  a  fault  in  the  weather,  not  in  her.  Yet, 
though  her  face  was  hidden  away,  Myra  knew 
what  dominating  power  looked  from  the  deep- 
set  eyes,  and  what  lines  had  been  graven  about 
the  mouth  by  the  lifelong  habit  of  a  woman 
sworn  to  rule. 


100  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

Myra  glanced  about  at  the  sear  autumn  land- 
scape and  up  at  the  bright  sky,  as  if,  her  mother 
being  gone,  she  owned  a  heritage.  Then  she 
ran  into  the  house  and  went  at  once  to  the  glass 
between  the  kitchen  windows,  to  settle  her  blown 
hair.  It  was  long  since  she  had  taken  a  mo- 
ment for  leisurely  acquaintance  with  herself  — 
hardly,  indeed,  without  guilt,  since  her  mother, 
years  before,  had  caught  her,  with  the  soft  hair 
about  her  shoulders,  interrogating  her  image  in 
the  glass.  Mrs.  Bourne  had,  without  comment, 
taken  the  kitchen  shears  from  the  table  and 
remarked : 

"You  set  down  in  that  chair." 

Myra  obeyed  her,  wonderingly,  and  snip! 
snip!  the  golden  locks  were  quivering  on  the 
floor.  Myra  remembered  now  that  she  had 
screamed  aloud  in  the  terror  of  it,  this  murder- 
ing of  her  beauty,  as  if  a  hand  were  at  her 
throat.  But  her  mother  had  said,  not  unkindly, 
"  Beauty  is  a  snare,"  and  set  her  to  reading  the 
verses  in  Proverbs  commendatory  of  good 
women.  The  hair  had  grown  again  as  thick 
and  golden  as  before,  but  to  this  day  Myra 
mourned  that  first  lost  mane,  as  if  its  precious- 
ness  in  some  way  equaled  the  pang  of  parting 
from  it.  Since  then,  not  daring  to  challenge  a 
jealous  eye,  she  had  worn  it  braided  in  a  hard, 
smooth  knot,  and  her  mother,  seeing  that,  con- 


A  WINTER'S  CaUHtlNG        ioii 

eluded  that  vanity  was  dead  in  her.  But  now, 
in  the  wide  sunny  kitchen,  humming  with 
warmth,  Myra  snatched  out  the  pins  impetu- 
ously and  let  the  glory  tumble  to  her  waist. 
Then  she  wreathed  and  twisted  it  in  a  fashion 
learned  from  passionate  observation  of  summer 
visitors  at  church,  and  when  she  had  finished, 
her  delighted  blue  eyes  met  her  enchantingly 
under  the  waving  gold.  She  was  smiling  at  her- 
self in  glad  abandon  when  it  suddenly  came  over 
her  that  her  head  befitted  a  holiday,  and  with  a 
sudden  daring,  she  ran  upstairs  to  her  little  cold 
bedroom  and  there  slipped  off  her  working  calico 
and  put  on  the  blue  cashmere  made  for  Sunday 
wear.  It  was  high  in  the  neck,  with  a  plain 
binding;  but  madness  was  upon  her  and  she 
stole  in  to  the  guest-room  bureau  and  took  out 
great-aunt  Nancy's  best  fichu,  turned  in  her 
dress,  and  fitted  the  lace  about  her  sweet  young 
throat.  The  vision  smiled  at  her,  and  she 
caught  her  breath.  It  seemed  well  to  sin  for 
such  an  end  as  this. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  and  she  sat 
down  by  the  kitchen  window  in  the  sun  and  felt 
her  own  delightfulness.  At  five  she  ate  a  light 
supper,  and  then  settled  herself  by  the  hearth, 
holding  a  gift-book  from  the  parlor  table.  It 
was  bound  in  red  morocco,  and  it  gave  her  a 
sense  of  happy  holiday.     While  she  sat  there  in 


itfe  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

her  dream,  there  was  a  footstep  on  the  path. 
The  knocker  fell.  Myra  started  to  her  feet. 
She  was  not  afraid.  It  had  not  occurred  either 
to  her  or  to  her  mother  that  it  was  unsafe  to  keep 
the  house  alone.  Holding  the  lamp  in  one  hand, 
the  red  book  tucked  under  her  arm,  she  opened 
the  door  and  peered  out  into  the  moonlit  dusk. 
A  man  stood  there. 

**Why!"  trembled  Myra,  backing  away  from 
him,  "when  'd  you  come  back.^" 

"This  mornin',"  said  Ansel  Forbes.  "Ain't 
you  goin'  to  ask  me  in.?" 

Myra,  her  cheeks  aflame,  stepped  aside  and 
he  followed  her  into  the  room.  He  was  a  hand- 
some fellow  with  an  upright  carriage,  strong 
features,  and  the  eagle's  glance. 

"You  've  been  gone  quite  a  spell,"  said  Myra, 
setting  down  the  lamp. 

"A  year,"  he  answered,  casting  time  behind 
him  as  of  no  account.  He  threw  off  his  coat, 
walked  up  to  her,  and  took  her  trembling  hands. 
They  stood  together  before  the  fire,  and  Myra 
feared  his  look  and  loved  it. 

"What  made  you  dress  up.?"  asked  Ansel. 
"Did  you  know  I  'd  come.?" 

"No,"  said  Myra,  her  head  drooping.  "Mo- 
ther 's  gone  away,  an'  I  never  have  a  chance  to 
wear  my  blue  cashmere  in  the  house." 

Ansel  still  held  her  hands.     They  struggled 


^  A  WINTER'S  COURTING        103 

then  a  little,  to  withdraw  themselves,  and  in  re- 
sponse he  bent  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

"  Oh ! "  cried  Myra,  flushing  to  the  hair.  "  Let 
me  go,  Ansel!     Let  me  go!" 

The  faint  plea  challenged  him. 

"I  won't,"  he  said  quietly  and  kissed  her 
again. 

Myra  stood  trembling,  but  not  with  fear  or 
anger  or  any  emotion  hostile  to  him. 

"You  like  me,"  he  said,  "you  know  you  do. 
We  should  be  married  now,  if  your  mother  had 
n't  broke  it  off  a  year  ago." 

Myra's  eyes  were  wet  and  pleading. 

"You  went  away,"  she  said  irrelevantly. 

"Course  I  went  away.  Do  you  s'pose  I  was 
goin'  to  May  here  an'  live  'longside  o'  you  an' 
run  the  farm  an'  see  you  go  nippin'  by  to  meetin' 
with  your  mother  an'  never  turn  your  head? 
No,  sirree !  I  traveled  up  to  Boston,  an'  I  went 
into  the  express  business  an'  I  saved  my  money, 
an'  when  I  heard  your  mother  was  goin'  away 
to  spend  the  winter  with  Lucy  Ann,  I  threw  up 
my  business  an'  put  for  home." 

"  Lucy  Ann  's  sick.  She  's  got  a  bad  knee," 
said  Myra,  waveringly,  to  gain  time. 

"Glad  she  has." 

"Ansel!" 

"  Well,  I  am.  One  bad  knee  won't  hurt  her. 
She  's  got  a  good  one,  ain't  she  ?     An'  I  am  glad. 


104  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

It 's  took  your  mother  off  the  ground,  an'  I  've 
got  a  chance  to  say  my  say." 

"Mother  thinks  some  of  havin'  Lucy  Ann 
come  home  to  live,"  said  Myra,  still  shyly. 
"  She  got  her  lameness  by  bein'  in  the  shoe-shop 
so  long." 

"  Well,  she  better  take  her  home  to  live.  Lucy 
Ann  's  a  widder,  without  chick  nor  child.  Let 
her  come  home  here,  an'  keep  your  mother  com- 
pany while  you  're  livin'  with  me.  Myra 
Bourne,  you  leave  your  hands  where  they  be. 
If  you  don't,  I  '11  kiss  you  again.  Guess  I  will 
anyway."  But  in  a  moment  he  released  her  and 
pointed  to  a  chair  by  the  hearth.  "You  set 
down  there,"  said  he. 

Myra  did  it,  chiefly  because  her  trembling 
would  not  let  her  stand.  Then  he  stood  before 
her  and  sometimes,  in  the  stress  of  talk,  turned 
away  and  walked  back  again. 

"You  stay  there,  Myra,  while  I  expound  the 
gospels.     You  've  always  minded,  ain't  you  ?  " 

"I  've  always  minded  mother." 

"Yes.  Well,  that  ain't  turned  out  very  well. 
Now  you  're  goin'  to  mind  me.  An'  you  're  goin' 
to  keep  on  doin'  it  till  I  see  you  're  a  reformed 
character,  an'  then  I  '11  mind  you.  After  we  've 
got  settled  down  livin'  together,  we  '11  mind  each 
other,  turn  an'  turn  about.  But  this  is  the  way 
we  're  goin'  to  begin.     I  've  got  a  horse  out  here. 


A  WINTER'S  COURTING        105 

Now  you  get  up  an'  put  on  your  things  an'  we  '11 
ride  over  to  Parson  True's  an'  get  married." 

Myra  sprang  to  her  feet.  She  looked  the 
wild  defensiveness  of  timid  creatures. 

"Why,  Ansel  Forbes!"  she  cried,  "you're 
crazy." 

"No,  I  ain't.     Put  on  your  things." 

"Why,  I  would  n't  do  such  a  thing,  not  if  the 
world  was  to  stop  to-morrow." 

"Why  would  n't  you?" 

"  Mother  would  n't  want  I  should.  She 
don't  mean  me  to  marry,  ever.  She  ain't  very 
strong." 

"  Your  grandmother  !  She  's  stronger  'n 
you  '11  be  if  you  ain't  looked  out  for." 

"She  has  rheumatism,"  ended  Myra  weakly. 

"Lucy  Ann  's  goin'  to  give  up  the  factory  an' 
come  an'  live  with  her,  ain't  she?" 

"She  may  change  her  mind." 

"  Now,  look  here,  Myra,  I  '11  make  a  bargain 
with  you.  A  winter  ain't  much  to  give  up  out 
o'  one  lifetime,  is  it  ?  You  just  give  this  winter 
up  to  me." 

Myra  forgot  herself. 

"  I  'd  give  you  all  my  lifetime  if  I  could,"  she 
said. 

"That's  the  talk.  But  s'pose  you  can't? 
S'pose  your  mother 's  comin'  home  along  in 
March,  an'  you  want  to  stay  here  with  her? 


106  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

You  just  marry  me  now  an'  stay  with  me  over  'n 
my  house  till  then.  Then  come  spring,  you  can 
trot  back  here,  an'  live  with  your  mother,  an'  I  '11 
go  back  into  the  express  business." 

"But  would  n't  you  ever  come  home  ?"  Myra 
asked  incautiously. 

"Not  if  you  felt  you  'd  better  be  here  with 
your  mother.  But  we  'd  have  three  months  to 
look  back  on.  That's  a  good  deal,  Myra,  come 
to  think  of  it.  It 's  better  'n  growin'  old  alone 
an'  wizenin'  up  an'  thinkin'  you  ain't  ever  had 
your  life  as  some  folks  have  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Myra  absently. 

He  took  her  hands  and  drew  them  up  about 
his  neck,  and  Myra  let  them  stay,  though  she 
seemed  unconscious  of  them. 

"I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  in  my  life," 
she  said  at  last. 

"What.?" 

"  Doin'  that  —  marryin' "  —  she  blushed  — 
"in  that  kind  of  a  hit  or  miss  fashion." 

"No,  I  never  heard  of  it  either,  but  there  's 
lots  o'  things  we  ain't  heard  on.  We  ain't  so 
terrible  knowin',  if  we  were  born  in  Sudleigh." 

"Delia  Mason  was  married  last  month.  I 
stood  up  with  her.  It  said  'for  better,  for 
worse.' " 

"  That 's  it,  you  see.  With  some  folks  it 's  all 
better.     That  means  when  they  can  keep  right 


A  WINTER'S  COURTING        107 

along  with  nothin'  to  part  'em.  We  ain't  so 
lucky.  With  us,  it 's  got  to  be  '  worse. '  Same 
thing,  though." 

"I  don't  know  what  Parson  True  'd  say." 

"  It 's  all  said.  I  see  him  on  the  way.  He  's 
goin'  to  set  up  till  'leven  to  wait  for  us.  I  got 
the  license  in  my  pocket." 

"Ansel!     You  must  be  crazy." 

Her  hands  dropped  from  his  neck,  but  he  put 
them  back  again. 

"  Parson  True  's  been  in  it  all  along.  He 
wrote  to  me  off  an'  on.  He  promised  he  would. 
Little  things,  you  know  —  whether  you  were 
sick,  or  dead,  or  takin'  notice  of  anybody  else." 

"S'poselhad?" 

"What?" 

"  S'pose  there  'd  been  anybody  else.  What 
did  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

"  Come  home  an'  bust  him.  It 's  gettin'  along 
in  the  evenin',  Myra.  I  don't  like  to  keep  the 
old  parson  up." 

"  No !  No ! "  said  Myra,  withdrawing  herself. 
Her  face  had  paled  and  the  look  of  anticipation 
dulled  out  of  her  eyes.  "  Mother  never  'd  over- 
look it  in  this  world." 

"  She  won't  know  it.  She  's  forty  miles  away. 
Nobody  writes  to  her  from  here.  Like  's  not 
nobody  '11  find  it  out  till  she  comes  home.  When 
she  does,  here  you  '11  be  waitin'  for  her,  fire  all 


108  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

built,  supper  on  the  table,  an'  you  ready  to  fetch 
an'  carry  same  as  ever." 

"But  s'pose  I  should.     Where  "  — 

He  interrupted  her. 

"  Where  we  goin'  to  live  ?  Right  over  in  my 
house." 

"  It  ain't  been  opened  for  a  year." 

"  Well,  it 's  open  now.  I  brought  along  old 
Betsy  from  the  Holler,  an'  she  's  cleanin'  this 
minute,  for  all  she  's  worth.  There 's  a  b'iler  o' 
water  on  the  stove  an'  Betsy 's  sluicin'  down  the 
walls.  'T  ain't  as  if  I  had  n't  had  it  put  in  good 
repair  that  summer  you  said  you  'd  marry  me. 
Myra!"  His  voice  compelled  her.  It  was  full 
of  new,  deep  meanings.  The  woman  in  her 
leaped  to  meet  that  mastery. 

"  What  is  it,  Ansel  ? "  she  asked  timidly. 

"Don't  you  like  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  so  thaU^jp#^|o  bend 
to  hear.     "Yes,  I  like  you."  ^^«^        ,^ 

"  How  much  ?  Well  enough  for  that,  if  your 
mother  'd  let  you  ?" 

"Oh,  yes!     Yes!" 

"  Did  n't  you  mind  it  when  I  went  away  ? " 

Myra  answered  with  pathetic  quiet,  like  a 
child. 

"I  'most  died." 

Ansel  spoke  now  with  a  grave  assurance,  as  at 
something  argued  out  and  finished. 


A  WINTER'S  COURTING        109 

"Now,  you  get  your  hat,  dear,  an'  I'll  un- 
blanket  the  horse."  He  was  throwing  his  coat 
on  as  he  spoke.  Myra  clasped  her  hands  and 
almost  wrung  them. 

"But,  Ansel!"  she  cried.  "I  can't  leave  the 
house  alone.     Mother  'd  kill  me." 

"It 's  just  to  ride  over  to  Parson  True's." 

"I  don't  mean  that.     I  mean  all  the  time." 

"  You  won't  have  to  to-night.  Betsy  won't  be 
through  cleanin'  for  a  couple  o'  days.  I  '11  leave 
you  here  till  then.  I  won't  stay  here,  dear,  nor 
eat  a  meal  o'  victuals.  After  we  're  settled  down 
over  to  my  place,  we  can  run  over  two  or  three 
times  a  day  an'  keep  track  o'  things.  Get  your 
hat,  dear." 

Myra  turned  in  pale  obedience,  and  brought 
out  her  hat  and  jacket  from  the  closet  under  the 
stairs.  Ansel  was  waiting  for  her  gravely,  hat  in 
hand. 

"You  better  bundle  up,"  said  he.  "It's 
awful  cold.     I  '11  unhitch  the  horse." 

When  Myra  ran  down  the  walk  to  the  gate, 
her  breath  came  sharply  and  her  throat  was 
dry.  It  was  like  a  dream  and  she  would  not 
have  been  surprised  to  find  the  "out-doors" 
empty  and  Ansel  gone.  But  he  was  there. 
He  lifted  her  into  the  wagon,  sprang  in  be- 
side her,  and  they  drove  away.  Once  or  twice 
she  opened  her  lips,  to  argue  or  remonstrate. 


no  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

but  he  only  answered  from  his  muflOiing  coat 
collar : 

"You  better  not  talk.     It 's  terrible  cold." 

Then  she  found  herself  listening  to  the  horse's 
hoofs,  beating  along  with  her  tumultuous 
thought. 

At  the  parson's  gate  Myra  stood  trembling 
while  the  horse  was  blanketed,  and  when  Ansel 
took  her  hand  she  shrank  a  little. 

"Ansel,"  she  breathed,  "let 's  go  back." 

"You're  cold,  dear,"  he  answered  tenderly. 
"Don't  you  tremble  so." 

Then  suddenly,  again  like  a  dream,  they  were 
in  the  minister's  sitting-room,  where  the  fire 
flickered  behind  great  iron  dogs,  and  Myra  had 
taken  her  jacket  off  and  was  putting  her  hands 
to  the  blaze.  She  had  resolved  on  the  way  to 
beseech  Parson  True  to  tell  her  all  about  this 
custom  of  marrying  for  a  time,  and  undoing  the 
habit  of  it  when  necessity  should  serve.  But 
though  she  began  with  a  trembling  word,  no- 
body seemed  to  notice  her,  save  to  be  doing  little 
cherishing  things  for  her  in  an  observant  way, 
and  she  hardly  knew  how  to  speak. 

"  We  're  in  a  good  deal  of  a  hurry,"  said  An- 
sel, cutting  short  her  frightened  questioning,  and 
then,  still  in  a  dream,  she  was  trembling  beside 
him,  her  hand  in  his,  and  Parson  True's  grave 
daughter  was  standing  in  the  background  look- 


A  WINTER'S  COURTING        111 

ing  at  them  in  that  comprehending  way  of  hers, 
as  if  she  understood  the  love  she  did  not  share, 
and  Parson  True  was  saying  the  words.  There 
was  cake  and  wine,  and  the  parson  blessed  her 
in  old-fashioned  phrases,  and  she  and  Ansel 
were  in  the  wagon  again,  whirling  off  toward 
home.  Again  there  was  silence  between  them, 
and  even  walking  up  the  path  with  her  Ansel 
did  not  speak.  But  at  the  door  he  kissed  her. 
"Don't  you  cry,  dear,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
want  you  should  ever  cry.  I  shan't  come  near 
till  old  Betsy 's  cleaned  the  house.  Then  I  '11 
come.  It  '11  be  a  day  or  two.  You  be  ready." 
He  strode  back  along  the  path,  and  Myra,  wait- 
ing, heard  his  wheels  upon  the  road  and  along 
the  driveway  to  the  house.  She  watched  until 
she  saw  the  lantern  moving  about  while  he  un- 
harnessed. Then  she  went  in  and,  taking  off 
her  things,  sat  down  by  the  dying  fire.  It  was  a 
dream  still,  beautiful  but  terrifying,  and  under 
it  all  was  the  sense  of  her  own  wrongdoing. 
She  saw  herself  through  her  mother's  eyes,  and 
her  mind  went  back  to  the  day  when  she  had 
been  guilty  before,  and  all  her  golden  hair  lay 
scattered  at  her  feet.  But  some  infection  rested 
on  her  from  the  man's  robustness  and,  with  a 
daring  recognition  of  life  within  her,  she  said 
aloud:  "My  hair  grew  again."  Then  she  rose 
and,  with  a  thought  of  omen  in  a  dying  fire, 


m  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

piled  on  wood  and  blew  until  it  answered 
her. 

Next  morning  she  awoke  with  a  throbbing 
consciousness  of  some  new  world  about  her,  and 
all  that  day  she  hurried  about  the  house,  setting 
it  in  order  and  making  her  clothing  into  orderly 
piles,  lest  he  should  summon  her  away.  She 
found  herself  referring  the  smallest  questions  to 
him,  as  if,  in  some  quick  transference  of  loyalty, 
she  had  merely  bent  her  nature  to  new  bonds. 
As  she  worked,  the  night  before  was  vague 
and  troubled  to  her,  and  still  the  sense  of  her 
wrongdoing  grew  and  grew.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  the  smoke  from  Ansel's  chimney,  she 
could  have  dismissed  it  all  as  some  unproved 
imagining. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  afternoon  she  sat  by 
the  fire,  idle.  The  latch  lifted,  in  neighborly 
fashion,  and  Ansel  walked  in. 

"  She  's  gone,"  he  said,  warming  his  hands  at 
the  blaze. 

"Who?" 

"  Old  Betsy.  The  house  is  clean,  all  but  the 
attic,  an'  we  '11  leave  that  till  spring.  Come, 
dear,  get  your  things." 

"What  for?"  Myra  managed  to  ask,  trem- 
bling. 

"Ain't  you  comin'  home  to  get  my  supper? 
I'll  cover  up  the  fire."      Then  he  laughed  a 


A  WINTER'S  COURTING        113 

little.  "  You  've  got  to  mind  me  now,"  he  said, 
with  a  catch  in  his  voice  not  quite  like  laughter. 
"You  promised." 

Myra  brought  out  a  shawl,  a  Rob  Roy  plaid 
she  had  worn  skating  when  they  were  children, 
and  put  it  over  her  head.  Ansel  had  been  cover- 
ing the  fire,  and  now  he  took  her  hand  and  lee. 
her  down  the  path  and  along  the  road  to  his 
house,  where  all  the  curtains  were  hospitably  up 
and  lamps  were  lighted.     He  opened  the  door. 

"You  go  in,"  he  said,  and  Myra,  in  a  trance 
of  obedience,  stepped  across  her  sill  into  the 
great  kitchen  where  the  fire  blazed  and  the  table 
was  set  for  two.  She  hung  her  shawl  on  a  nail 
where  Ansel's  mother  had  used  to  hang  hers. 

"You  want  me  to  get  supper?"  she  asked 
simply. 

Ansel  put  his  arms  about  her  and  held  her  to 
him. 

"  I  '11  be  good  to  you,"  he  promised  her. 
"I '11  be  good  to  you." 

"But  it's  only  for  this  winter,"  said  Myra 
wistfully,  and  he  answered: 

"No,  it 's  only  for  this  winter." 

The  strangest  part  of  it  all  was  its  familiarity. 
In  a  week  Myra  went  singing  about  her  house, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  always  sung 
and  always  lived  with  somebody  who  treated  her 
like  a  beloved  child  and  was  pleased  with  all  she 


114  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

did.  She  tried  new  dishes  out  of  old  Mrs. 
Forbes's  cookery  book,  and  Ansel  drove  five 
miles  to  buy  citron,  with  the  unquestioning  de- 
votion of  other  lovers  in  riding  for  a  flower.  She 
wore  her  blue  cashmere  every  afternoon  now. 
Ansel  had  recommended  it,  in  his  unregarding 
way,  and  she  had  trembled  out  something  about 
"mother"  and  the  desirability  of  having  it  "for 
nice"  another  year.  But  that  afternoon  they 
drove  to  the  "street"  and,  Ansel  standing  by, 
she  picked  out  a  red  cashmere  and  a  sweet 
delaine  with  forget-me-nots  sown  over  it,  and 
after  they  were  made  she  felt  less  guilty  about 
the  blue.  Yet  none  of  their  pastimes  made  her 
neglect  the  work  her  mother  had  laid  out  for  her. 
She  tacked  the  spread,  and  even  quilted  one 
pieced  long  ago  and  left  in  the  attic  for  a  leisure 
time ;  and  Ansel  sat  by  the  quilting  frame,  rolling 
up  the  finished  work,  telling  her  stories,  picking 
up  her  thimble  for  her,  and  bridging  silences 
with  laughter.  They  planned  things,  while  they 
sat  together,  house-bound  in  winter  days,  always 
what  they  should  do  to  make  the  place  more  gay 
and  livable.  It  was  Ansel  who  first  touched 
upon  the  garden.  He  had  always  been,  as  his 
mother  said,  a  great  hand  for  flowers,  and  one 
day  Myra  found  him  by  the  window  busy  with 
pencil  and  paper. 

"What  are  you  doin' .?"  she  asked. 


A  WINTER'S  COURTING         115 

"Plannin'  out  the  garden  beds,"  said  Ansel 
absorbedly.  "  We  '11  move  the  pinies,  so  't  you 
can  see  'em  from  the  kitchen  winder  when 
you  're  moldin'  bread.  The  hollyhocks,  too.  I 
never  did  like  'em  out  there  in  the  open  where 
they  '11  thrash  and  bang  in  a  gale  o'  wind. 
We  '11  put  'em  down  by  the  orchard  wall." 

Myra  leaned  her  head  against  his  shoulder 
and  thought  how  wonderful  it  was  to  live  in  a 
country  where  a  great  benevolent  creature  like 
this  made  all  things  bright.  Suddenly  she  sat 
up  and  looked  at  him  in  swift  remembrance. 

"Ansel!"  she  cried,  "that  '11  be  in  the  spring." 

"Yes,  so  'twill." 

"  Well,  in  the  spring,  mother  '11  come  home. 
I  shan't  be  here." 

Ansel  laid  down  the  pencil  and  folded  the 
paper. 

"  No,"  said  he,  in  a  sad  abstractedness.  "  So 
you  won't." 

The  tears  brimmed  her  eyes  and,  seeing  them, 
he  took  up  the  pencil  again.  "Well,"  said  he 
briskly,  "  we  might  as  well  do  our  plannin',  if  it 
ain't  goin'  to  come  to  pass.  Them  columbines 
now  "  —  and  the  fairy  tale  went  on. 

The  sun  rose  higher  and  brought  a  smiling 
March.  There  was  a  sound  of  moving  water 
and  the  earth  smelled  good.  One  day  Ansel 
was  fencing,  and  Myra  ran  to  him  from  the 


116  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

kitchen,  when  she  had  a  word  to  say,  her  bright 
hair  blowing  in  the  wind. 

"Say,"  he  called  after  her,  as  she  sped  back 
after  one  such  trip,  "  d'  you  see  that  letter  I  laid 
on  the  end  o'  the  mantelpiece  ?  I  took  it  out  o' 
the  office  when  I  got  the  horse  shod,  an'  forgot 
to  say  so." 

Myra  nodded,  and  her  pace  sagged  to  a 
leaden  walk.  Foreboding  was  at  her  heart,  and 
she  held  the  letter  for  a  moment  before  tearing 
it  open.  It  said  exactly  what  she  knew  it 
would.  She  dropped  it  and  went  wavering  to 
the  door. 

"Ansel ! "  she  called  weakly.     "Ansel ! " 

He  threw  down  his  axe  and  came.  Myra 
was  sitting  stolidly  by  the  hearth,  her  great  eyes 
dark  with  trouble. 

"She  's  comin'  home,"  she  announced,  with- 
out looking  at  him. 

"Your  mother.?" 

"Yes.     She's  comin'  home." 

"Lucy  Ann  with  her?" 

"She  don't  say." 

There  was  a  pause,  while  Ansel  gravely  looked 
at  her.  Suddenly  Myra  lifted  her  eyes  to  his 
and  cried  out  harshly: 

"You  know  what  it  means,  Ansel  ?  I  've  got 
to  go  over  there.     I  've  got  to!" 

Ansel  put  his  hand  gently  on  her  hair. 


A  WINTER'S  COURTING         117 

"There,  honey,"  said  he,  "don't  you  fret." 

"  We  made  the  bargain,  did  n't  we,  Ansel  ? 
We  said  we  'd  have  three  months  together,  an' 
then  't  would  be  all  over." 

"We  certain  did.  Now,  don't  you  think 
about  it.  I  '11  go  over  an'  open  the  winders  an' 
start  the  fire." 

If  the  first  weeks  of  her  marriage  had  been  a 
dream  of  pleasure,  this  was  a  dream  of  pain. 
That  day  and  the  next  Ansel  was  ever  at  her 
side.  He  helped  her  set  her  mother's  house  in 
order  and  carried  over  the  food  she  had  cooked 
for  the  home-coming  supper.  Myra  worked 
with  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks,  and  al- 
ways in  sad  silence.  Her  face  had  fallen  into 
haggardness  in  those  few  hours.  Her  eyes 
looked  from  it  woefully.  On  the  afternoon  of 
the  second  day  her  mother's  house  was  warm 
and  welcoming,  and  Myra,  at  her  own  window, 
stood  with  Ansel,  waiting  for  the  stage.  When 
they  should  see  it  dip  into  the  hollow  beyond  the 
barn  it  would  be  time  enough  to  go. 

"Ansel,"  she  said,  clinging  to  him,  "I  've  tied 
up  my  clothes  in  a  sheet.  All  but  the  dresses. 
Them  I  could  hang  over  my  arm.  I  don't  want 
to  jam  my  cashmeres,  even  if  I  never  should 
wear  ^em  any  more." 

"You  leave  'em  here  a  spell,"  said  Ansel 
softly,  his  cheek  down  on  her  hair.     "They  '11 


118  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

be  a  kind  of  a  comfort  to  me  till  I  get  used  to  it. 
I  '11  bring  'em  over  'twixt  daylight  an'  dark, 
some  night  soon,  an'  leave  'em.  I  need  n't  stop 
to  speak  to  anybody." 

"  Ansel,  what  you  goin'  to  do  left  here  alone  ? 
You  goin'  back  to  Boston.^" 

*'  I  don't  know  's  I  rightly  know  yet,"  said 
Ansel  gravely.  ** There!  there's  the  stage!" 
He  seemed  to  be  hurrying  her  out  at  the  door, 
and  that  last  touch  of  his  hands  was  more  than 
she  could  bear. 

"O  my  soul!"  she  cried,  "my  soul!"  stum- 
bling along  the  road  to  her  task.  "  Oh,  I  never 
can  bear  it  in  this  world!     I  never  can." 

But  when  Mrs.  Bourne  and  Lucy  Ann,  stiff 
but  walking  steadily,  came  in  at  the  front  door, 
Myra  was  there  to  meet  them,  a  little  flushed 
and  trembling,  though  not  quite  in  her  old  way, 
and  no  one  saw  the  change  in  her.  Lucy  Ann 
was  like  her  mother,  strong-willed  and  resolute, 
though  of  a  robust  good-humor. 

"Ain't  you  done  your  hair  different?"  she 
asked,  when  Mrs.  Bourne  had  bestowed  a  meagre 
kiss  on  Myra,  and  it  was  her  turn  for  greeting. 

Myra  put  her  hand  dreamily  to  her  head. 

"I  guess  I  have,"  said  she.  She  seemed  to 
herself  so  truly  another  creature  that  a  change  of 
fashion  was  less  than  nothing  to  her.  In  the 
hour  before  supper,  she  fell  stolidly  into  her  ac- 


A  WINTER'S  COURTING         119 

customed  ways,  stepping  in  and  out  from  pantry 
to  kitchen  as  if  no  other  house  had  ever  earned 
her  love.  Mrs.  Bourne  and  Lucy  Ann  were 
busy  unpacking  the  top  layers  of  their  trunks,  to 
leave  the  balance  of  the  work  till  morning,  and 
at  six  Myra  summoned  them. 

'*  Come,"  she  called.  Her  voice  rang  sharply, 
and  they  came,  vaguely  alarmed  by  it. 

The  table  was  beautiful  in  the  nicety  of  its 
array,  and  the  fragrance  of  tea  filled  the  air  be- 
guilingly.  Mrs.  Bourne  assumed  her  place,  and 
Lucy  Ann,  following  Myra's  motion  to  her,  took 
the  seat  opposite.  Myra  was  about  to  slip  into 
the  one  between  them,  but  midway  she  paused, 
straightened  herself,  and  stood  with  her  hands 
upon  the  chair. 

"Mother!"  she  cried  chokingly. 

"The  land!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Bourne,  setting 
the  teapot  down  in  haste.  "  I  'most  scalded  me. 
Myra,  what 's  the  matter?" 

"Mother,  I  've  got  to  tell  you  something." 

"Then  for  the  land  sake,  out  with  it!"  re- 
torted Mrs.  Bourne,  alarm  upon  her  face. 
"What  have  you  been  up  to ?  You  ain't  burnt 
the  house  down.  You  lost  the  bank  book? 
Myra,  you  'd  ought  to  be  trounced,  standin'  there 
like  a  bump  on  a  log.     You  speak  up  an'  tell." 

Myra  spoke,  and  her  voice  sounded  to  her 
hollow  and  of  no  avail. 


120  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"  I  've  got  married.  I  've  married  Ansel 
Forbes." 

Mrs.  Bourne  sat  wide-eyed  and  open-mouthed. 

"Married  Ansel  Forbes.^"  she  echoed. 

"Yes,  mother,  I  have.  An'  I  ain't  sorry. 
An'  don't  you  try  to  make  me  sorry,  for  I 
shan't  be." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Bourne  irrelevantly;  "you 
set  down  an'  eat  your  supper." 

It  was  what  Myra  had  meant  to  do,  now 
that  her  news  had  been  told,  but  her  voice 
went  on  in  spite  of  her.  A  spark  had  sprung  to 
either  eye.     Her  cheeks  burned  hotly. 

"I  've  got  to  get  his  supper,"  she  said  sharply. 
"I  must  go  now.     I  must  go  home." 

She  had  reached  the  door  before  the  two 
women  recovered  themselves  to  any  understand- 
ing. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  called  Lucy  Ann.  She  rose 
stiffly  and  walked  after  her,  moved  by  a  sense  of 
the  joylessness  of  such  leave-taking.  She  put  a 
detaining  hand  upon  her  sister's  arm. 

"There,  Myra,"  said  she  kindly,  "like  as  not 
you  've  done  real  well.  They  say  Ansel 's  been 
left  something  by  his  aunt  up  there  in  Boston, 
an'  the  express  business  an'  all.  Mother,  you 
speak  up,  won't  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Bourne  opened  her  mouth,  but  no  words 
came.     Myra  had  been  pinning  the  little  Rob 


A  WINTER'S  COURTING        Ul 

Roy  shawl  over  her  head,  and  now  she  unlatched 
the  door. 

" Good-by,  mother,"  she  said  huskily.  "I  'U 
be  over  after  supper." 

At  the  gate  she  heard  her  mother  calling  her. 

"Myra!"  came  the  voice,  in  the  old,  quick 
tones.     "Myra!" 

A  sob  caught  Myra  in  her  throat,  and  she 
stood  trembling.  She  did  not  answer;  she  only 
turned  her  face  away  and  set  her  feet  toward 
Ansel's.     And  the  voice  absolved  her. 

"You  tell  Ansel  to  come  over  with  ye!" 

Myra  threw  open  the  gate  and  ran  along  the 
road.  There  were  frogs  peeping  in  the  distance, 
and  the  west  showed  a  ray  of  yellow  light.  She 
sped  up  the  driveway  and  her  heart  failed  her 
because  the  house  was  dark.  She  opened  the 
door  and  hurried  forward  into  the  kitchen. 

"Ansel!"  she  cried  passionately.  "O  An- 
sel, you  here  ?  " 

A  fire  was  flickering  on  the  hearth  and  Ansel 
rose  slowly  as  she  came  to  him.  It  was  in- 
credible to  find  him  there,  solid  and  warm  and 
hers.     She  hid  her  face  upon  his  arm. 

"  I  can't  stay  there,"  she  choked,  between  her 
sobs.  "  This  is  my  home.  I  've  got  to  live  in  it. 
Ansel,  you  had  your  supper  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Ansel,  stroking  her  hair. 

"Wa'n't  you  goin'  to  have  any?" 


122  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"  When  you  come  an'  got  it  for  me." 
"What  made  you  think  I  'd  come?" 
He  laughed  softly  at  her  foolishness  and,  as 

she  stood  there  quieting  into  peace,  new  wisdom 

broke  upon  her. 

"May  be  you  thought  't  would  be  this  way, 

when  you  told  me  I  could  go  back  ? "  she  said. 
"May  be  I  did." 

*  "May  be  Parson  True  thought  so,  too?" 
"May  be  so,  honey.     Now,  le'  's  have  our 

supper." 


ROSY  BALM 


ROSY  BALM 

Miss  Arletta  was  seeing  the  minister  out 
through  the  kitchen,  because  he  had  tied  his 
horse  at  the  barn,  and  it  was  easier  to  go  that 
way.  He  was  a  tall,  stooping  man  with  thin 
gray  hair  and  a  long,  benevolent  face.  Miss 
Arietta,  behind  him,  looked  very  small;  yet  she 
was  a  woman  of  good  height,  though  of  excep- 
tional thinness.  Her  little  face  showed  all  its 
bones  pathetically,  and  a  perpetual  smile  dwelt 
upon  it  and  behind  the  glitter  of  her  gold-bowed 
spectacles.  People  said  she  wore  off  her  flesh 
by  being  spry. 

Midway  in  the  large  kitchen,  comfortably 
lighted  by  pale  winter  sunlight,  the  minister 
paused.  He  sniffed  a  little,  and  his  mild  face 
took  on  a  look  of  pleasure. 

"Why,  Miss  Arietta,  I  smell  flowers." 

Miss  Arietta  laughed. 

"No,"  she  said,  "it 's  rose-water.  I  've  be'n 
fixin'  it  up  with  glycerine  an'  some  other  trade  I 
know,  to  put  on  my  hands.  They  git  terrible 
chapped,  this  winter  weather." 

"Yes,"  the  minister  agreed,  "so  my  wife 
says." 


126  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"Why,  look  here!"  called  Miss  Arietta,  her 
hand  upon  the  door.  "You  wait  a  minute,  an' 
I  '11  fill  a  vial  for  her;  I  got  some  right  here." 

"Well,"  said  the  minister  hesitatingly;  but  he 
threw  back  his  coat  again,  and  loosed  his  com- 
forter, while  Arietta  ran  to  the  cellar  way  for  her 
bottle,  and,  after  much  rinsing  and  peering 
through  it  at  the  sun,  proceeded  to  fill  it  from  her 
larger  store. 

"  You  tell  Mis'  Hardy  to  put  it  on  nights,  an' 
after  she  's  washed  her  hands,"  she  counseled. 
"Tell  her  I  '11  drop  in  an'  see  how  't  works. 
Tell  her  I  've  enjoyed  your  call;  but  she  must  n't 
leave  off  comin'  now  it 's  cold." 

"She  would  have  come,"  the  minister  ex- 
plained again,  "I  have  no  doubt;  but  this  ques- 
tion of  the  missionary  fund  keeps  her  much  oc- 
cupied." 

"Poor  little  creatur's!"  said  Miss  Arietta. 
Her  mind  had  flown  to  the  heathen  on  foreign 
shores.  "  Don't  seem  's  if  there  could  be  any- 
body these  times  without  gospel  privileges. 
Makes  me  terrible  ashamed  to  think  I  ain't  got 
more  'n  that  poor  miserable  dollar  to  give." 

"The  widow's  mite,"  said  the  minister  kindly. 
Miss  Arietta  was  wrapping  the  bottle  in  a  piece 
of  newspaper.  "  It  is  not  the  size  of  the  offering 
that  renders  it  blessed.  Miss  Arietta.  Remem- 
ber the  parable." 


ROSY  BALM  127 

"There!"  said  she.  "Don't  ye  tip  it  over  in 
your  pocket.  That  cork  ain't  none  too  good. 
You  tell  Mis'  Hardy,  if  she  likes  it  there  '11  be 
more  where  that  come  from." 

The  minister  spoke  his  gentle  thanks,  and  now 
Miss  Arietta  opened  the  door.  The  December 
wind  blew  up  an  outer  fringe  of  her  thin  hair, 
and  the  minister  also  bent  his  head  to  its  in- 
clemency. 

"  I  am  obliged.  Miss  Arietta,"  he  called  back. 
"You  ought  not  to  be  so  generous  with  your 
recipe.     You  might  sell  it." 

Arietta,  nodding  and  smiling,  watched  him 
out  of  the  yard,  and  then  shut  the  door  and 
turned  back  to  the  warmth  of  her  still  house. 
She  liked  people.  Visitors  were  like  the  wind 
itself:  they  brought  vigor  and  tidings.  But  she 
was  always  glad  when  the  wind  was  over  and  the 
visitors  had  gone.  After  she  had  tucked  a  stick 
of  wood  into  the  kitchen  stove,  and  warmed  her 
hands  there,  she  went  into  the  sitting-room  and 
took  her  low  rocker  by  the  window.  She  was 
turning  sheets  that  day.  They  were  scarcely 
worn  at  all;  but  it  was  pretty  work,  and  she  did 
it  more  times  a  year  than  she  would  have  liked 
to  tell.  Presently  she  dropped  her  sewing  in  her 
lap  and  began  musing  over  unhappy  India  as  the 
minister  had  described  it.  Miss  Arietta  would 
not  have  been  altogether  willing  to  tell  the  min- 


128  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

ister  how  hard  it  was  to  keep  from  dwelling,  in 
keen  delight,  on  his  picture  of  foreign  lands,  nor 
how  easy  to  forget  the  pity  of  it  th^t  suffering 
should  invade  that  paradise  of  bloom.  She  re- 
membered the  heathen's  godless  state,  and  said, 
"Poor  creatur's!"  But  even  at  the  utterance, 
she  knew  this  was  the  guilty  protest  of  a  mind 
secretly  in  love  with  heathendom  itself.  She 
prized  her  gospel  privileges,  but  she  liked  also  to 
be  warm,  and  her  irrepressible  fancy  cast  up  be- 
fore her  the  picture  of  wintry  Sundays  in  church 
when  hot  soapstones  cooled  with  the  feet  that 
sought  them,  and  heaven  itself  was  nothing  but 
a  sizzling  coral  strand.  Yet  that  way  stretched 
a  dangerous  latitude.  She  caught  herself  back 
to  the  old  dutiful  regret  that  she  could  give  so 
little,  and  took  up  her  sewing.  But  suddenly  she 
dropped  the  work  again  into  her  lap,  and  spoke 
aloud : 

"My  land!  mebbe  that 's  the  way." 
Immediately  she  saw  herself  making  a  lotion 
for  the  hands  and  selling  it  broadcast.  Arietta's 
mind  always  moved  by  leaps,  straight  for  the 
brightest  goal.  In  that  moment  of  conception, 
she  saw  her  scheme  full  grown.  She  was  mak- 
ing the  lotion  by  quarts,  by  gallons,  in  vats  and 
reservoirs.  Her  house,  her  clothes,  were  redo- 
lent of  rose-water  and  sweet  essences.  Bottles 
with  printed  labels  were  on  druggists'  shelves  all 


ROSY  BALM  129 

over  the  country,  and  ladies  with  chapped  hands 
were  crowding  counters  in  throngs,  all  asking, 
"Have  you  Rosy  Balm?"  That  was  to  be  its 
name.  And  all  the  profits  that  came  flowing  in 
would  be  put  scrupulously  into  the  bank,  and,  at 
the  end  of  every  month,  sent  off  to  India  for  the 
breaking  of  error's  chain. 

That  night  Miss  Arietta  slept  intermittently; 
but  she  dreamed  of  rose-gardens  and  dusky 
maidens  on  sea-beaches  where  the  pebbles  were 
pink  beads,  and  she  awoke  to  action.  When  her 
breakfast  dishes  were  done,  she  ran  across  the 
field  and  asked  Tommy  Beale  to  harness  up  and 
take  her  to  town ;  and  there  she  drew  five  dollars 
out  of  the  savings-bank,  and  at  the  wondering 
druggist's  stocked  up  with  glycerine  and  rose- 
water  and  the  rest. 

For  two  days  Miss  Arietta's  kitchen  smelled 
divinely  to  her,  as  she  mixed  and  measured. 
She  seemed  to  be  living  in  an  enchanted  spot, 
and  doing  something  that  was  going  to  turn  out 
very  precious  and  wonderful.  She  had  always 
made  her  lotion  with  a  zealous  care,  but  now  she 
wrought  with  a  nicety  proportionate  to  the  great- 
ness of  her  task.  She  began  to  think  of  precious 
ointment,  and  got  out  the  big  picture  Bible  to 
read  the  story,  as  if  her  own  little  every-day  Tes- 
tament were  not  enough.  And  one  morning, 
when  the  sun  fell  on  the  winter  crust  and  turned 


130  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

.it  into  a  dazzle,  she  started  forth,  carrying  a  bag 
filled  with  small  bottles,  all  alike  and  neatly  la- 
beled in  her  fine  old-fashioned  hand.  Arietta 
took  the  Lower  Road  because  the  houses  there 
were  nearer  together,  and  she  was  impatient  to 
begin  to  sell.  She  could  not  remember  having 
felt  so  happy  for  years,  nor  so  full  of  youth.  She 
was  on  a  track,  she  felt,  that  might  lead  any- 
where. 

The  first  place  on  the  Lower  Road  was  Law- 
rence Gilson's,  a  little  one-story  house,  un- 
painted,  but  in  summer  a  picture  of  beauty  in 
the  midst  of  vines  and  tangles.  Now  it  was  a 
part  of  the  cold  rigor  of  the  time,  and  when  Mrs. 
Gilson  came  to  the  door.  Miss  Arietta  was  ready 
to  say,  with  a  shiver: 

"  My !  ain't  this  winter  weather  ?  " 

"I  guess  't  is,"  said  Mrs.  Gilson,  "an'  we  've 
all  been  down  sick  with  colds.  Come  right  in. 
J  'm  terrible  glad  to  see  ye." 

There  was  no  one  in  the  kitchen  but  little 
Anna  May,  and  she  sat  in  a  high  chair  at  the 
table,  packing  six  raisins  into  a  small  round  box 
and  then  taking  them  out  and  packing  them  over 
again.  There  was  a  clove  apple  before  her,  and 
an  Infant  Samuel  in  plaster. 

"I  let  her  have  'em  out  o'  the  best  room," 
Mrs.  Gilson  explained,  as  Miss  Arietta  paused 
to  admire  these  trophies.     "  She  's  jest  gettin' 


ROSY  BALM  131 

over  her  cold,  an'  much  as  she  can  do  to  find 
anything  to  take  up  her  mind."  She  was  tuck- 
ing a  stick  of  wood  into  the  stove,  and  now  she 
turned  to  Miss  Arietta  with  a  newly  welcoming 
smile.  "Take  your  things  right  off,"  she  bade 
her.  "Now,  don't  you  say  you  ain't  come  to 
pass  the  day." 

"  I  '11  unpin  my  shawl,"  said  Arietta.  "  No,  I 
can't  stop  more  'n  a  minute.  I  was  only  goin' 
by,  an'  I  thought  I  'd  drop  in.  She  's  be'n  real 
sick,  ain't  she?" 

They  exchanged  a  sympathetic  glance  over 
Anna  May.  She  was  a  pathetic  little  picture, 
with  her  wan  face,  her  flaxen  pigtails,  and  her 
painstaking  intentness  over  the  raisins.  Mrs. 
Gilson  nodded. 

"  Her  cough  's  be'n  the  worst  of  any  of  us," 
she  said  proudly.  "  'Most  tore  her  to  pieces. 
I  thought  one  time  't  was  whoopin'-cough,  but 
the  doctor  says  it 's  spasmotic." 

They  talked  on  for  a  time,  while  the  wood 
blazed  and  the  stove  reddened,  and  finally  Miss 
Arietta  pinned  her  shawl  and  rose  to  go.  Then 
she  opened  her  bag.  Anna  May  was  looking  at 
her  for  the  first  time.  Her  blue  eyes  glistened 
with  something  like  expectation.  In  spite  of 
herself.  Miss  Arietta  spoke  and  said  the  word 
she  had  not  premeditated. 

"What  you  s'pose  I  got  in  this  bag?"  she 


132  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

asked  softly.  Her  own  eyes  gleamed  as  brightly 
as  the  child's. 

Anna  May  shook  her  head. 

'*  Well,"  said  Miss  Arietta,  "  I  got  a  little  bottle 
o'  suthin'  I  fixed  up  to  rub  on  folks'  hands.  I  'm 
goin'  to  give  it  to  you.  Mebbe  you  '11  let  mother 
have  a  mite  'fore  she  goes  to  bed,  an'  when  you 
git  out  slidin',  it  '11  be  nice  for  you,  too.  It 
smells  real  good."  She  set  the  bottle  on  the 
table  beside  the  Infant  Samuel,  and  hurried  out. 

"Now,  ain't  you  kind!"  Mrs.  Gilson  was  call- 
ing after  her,  down  the  path;  but  Miss  Arietta 
only  waved  her  mittened  hand  and  hurried  on. 
She  was  muttering  to  herself: 

"  If  I  ain't  a  fool !  Poor  little  creatur',  though ! 
Well,  it 's  only  one  bottle  anyways.  I  've  got 
plenty  left."  She  put  up  her  head  again  and 
quickened  her  steps. 

Old  Rhody  came  next.  She  lived  alone  in  an- 
other little  house,  one  that  was  adorned  neither 
by  summer  nor  winter.  There  was  no  answer 
to  Miss  Arietta's  knock,  and  she  went  in.  Old 
Rhody  sat  by  the  fire,  gaunt  and  gray. 

She  began  at  once,  in  her  high  voice  full  of 
wailing  circumflexes : 

"  I  says  to  myself,  there  won't  be  a  soul  come 
into  the  house  this  day.  I  dunno'  what  pos- 
sessed you  to  start  out  this  weather,  but  now 
you  're  here,  Arietta  Black,  you  jest  set  down 


ROSY  BALM  133 

there  in  that  chair  an'  tell  me  what 's  goin'  on  in 
the  world.  I  dunno'  no  more  'n  if  this  was  the 
tomb  an'  I  was  walled  up  in  it." 

Miss  Arietta  threw  off  her  shawl  at  once  and 
put  down  her  bag. 

"You  pretty  lame,  Rhody.^"  she  inquired 
warmly. 

"  Pretty  lame  ?  I  guess  I  be.  I  'm  so  lame  I 
can't  git  from  kitchen  to  pantry  without  hollerin' 
right  out,  as  if  somebody  's  jabbin'  a  knife  into 
me.  Took  me  two  hours  by  the  clock  this 
mornin'  to  git  my  work  done  up,  an'  you  can 
guess  how  much  I  have,  livin'  alone  so." 

Miss  Arietta  was  beaming  through  her  glasses. 

"Ain't  there  suthin'  I  can  do,  now  I  'm  here  ?  " 
she  inquired.  "  Stir  up  some  biscuits  or  a  batch 
o'  pies?" 

"No!  no!  makes  me  nervous  as  a  witch  to 
have  anybody  messin'  round  amongst  my  things. 
No,  you  se'  down  an'  tell  me  what 's  goin'  on  in 
the  world.  I  might  as  well  be  dead,  for  all  I 
hear." 

Miss  Arietta  began  with  the  upper  end  of  the 
town,  and  took  the  houses  in  turn.  She  told 
about  Jabez  Lane's  steer,  and  Mary  Dwight's 
new  melodeon.  She  had  plenty  of  news,  for  her 
own  house  was  a  center  of  social  intercourse. 
Rhody  listened  greedily.  No  one  came  to  see 
her,  as  she  said,  and  she  was  too  poor  to  take  the 


134  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

county  paper.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  Miss 
Arietta  rose  and  threw  on  her  shawl. 

"Mebbe  I  '11  be  in  again  next  week,"  she 
said.     "You  heard  from  Lucy  lately?" 

"She  writes  pretty  reg'lar,"  said  Rhody 
gloomily.  "But  I  dunno'  when  't  '11  stop. 
She  's  nothin'  but  a  niece  by  marriage,  an'  you 
can't  expect  folks  to  act  as  if  they  were  your 
own.  Last  Christmas  she  sent  me  a  half  a 
dozen  handkerchers,  as  nice  as  ever  you  see, 
with  a  letter  worked  in  the  corner.  I  don't 
look  for  nothin'  this  year.  Don't  expect  no- 
thin',  I  say,  an'  ye  won't  be  disappointed." 

Miss  Arietta  opened  her  bag  with  a  snap. 
Her  mouth  curled  scornfully,  but  that  was  for 
her  own  infirmity  of  purpose. 

"'T  ain't  quite  Christmas,"  she  said  rapidly, 
as  if  she  were  ashamed,  "  but  mebbe  I  should  n't 
git  round  jest  then.  So  I  brought  you  this  little 
vial,  Rhody.  Mebbe  't  '11  keep  your  hands 
kinder  nice  an'  smooth,  doin'  your  housework 
an'  all." 

Rhody  took  the  neat  bottle  and  looked  at  it 
with  a  softened  gaze. 

"Well,  if  that  ain't  complete!"  she  said. 
"You  're  real  good.  Arietta.  What  made  you 
think  on't?" 

Miss  Arietta  was  getting  out  at  the  door  as 
fast  as  possible. 


ROSY  BALM  135 

"I  '11  be  over  next  week,"  she  called.  "I  '11 
bring  my  knittin'  an'  we  '11  have  a  dish  o'  dis- 
course." 

This  section  of  the  Lower  Road  was  familiarly 
known  as  Lonesome  Hill,  because  each  of  the 
four  houses  had  but  one  inmate.  The  next  was 
Uncle  Blake's,  and  there  Miss  Arietta  was  sure 
of  a  response.  Uncle  Blake  came  at  once  to  the 
door,  and  she  hesitated,  seeing  his  white  shirt- 
front  and  scrupulous  silk  stock. 

"You  got  company?"  she  asked. 

Uncle  Blake  laughed,  a  little  dry  note.  He 
was  a  tall  old  man  with  a  noble  profile. 

"No,  no,"  he  answered.  "Walk  right  in. 
You  see  I  was  dressed  up,  did  n't  ye  ?  Well,  so 
I  be.  Se'  down,  an'  I  '11  tell  ye  what  put  it  into 
my  head." 

She  took  the  Boston  rocker  by  the  hearth, 
and  Uncle  Blake  sank  into  his  own  armchair. 
The  room  was  beautiful  in  its  cleanliness  and 
order. 

"  Ye  see,"  he  continued,  "  passon  asked  me  to 
come  over  to  dinner  to-day ;  but  that  wa'n't  why 
I  dressed  up.  I  done  it  the  minute  I  got  my 
chores  done  up.  I  kinder  wanted  to.  Arietta 
Black," —  he  rose,  and  looked  down  upon  her  in 
a  proud  dignity, — "  Arietta  Black,  I  'm  eighty- 
five  year  old  to-day." 

Miss  Arietta   also   rose.     She    put   out  her 


136  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

hand,  and  he  shook  it  solemnly.  Then,  having 
pledged  the  day,  they  sat  gravely  down  again. 

"Eighty-five!"  repeated  the  old  man.  His 
face  took  on  the  musing  look,  reflected  from  his 
meditations  of  the  hour  before.  "  I  've  seen  a 
good  deal.  Arietta." 

"I  guess  you  have."  Miss  Arietta's  eyes 
were  wet.  She  thought  of  the  dead  days  she 
had  loved,  and  knew  that  he  also  had  been  a 
neighborly  witness  of  them.  "Well,  I  hope 
you  '11  have  a  good  spell  yet." 

"I  dunno'  why  I  shouldn't,"  said  the  old 
man.  "  I  'm  as  lively  as  a  cricket.  I  fried  me 
some  cakes  this  mornin',  for  my  breakfast,  an'  I 
eat  'em,  too.  Mebbe  I  shall  see  a  good  many 
more  winters.  Mebbe  I  shan't.  I  'm  livin' 
on  borrered  time.  But  I  'm  thankful  for 't. 
Arietta.     I  'm  thankful." 

"You  remember  grandsir,  don't  you  ?"  asked 
Miss  Arietta.  "  He  was  older  'n  you  be,  by  a 
good  ten  year,  as  I  remember  him.  He  'd  kep' 
everything  but  his  hearin'." 

Uncle  Blake's  face  creased  into  a  reminiscent 
smile. 

"  'T  was  he  that  used  to  set  up  'most  all  night 
to  see  what  time  I  went  home  from  Adelaide 
True's,"  he  rejoined.  "  I  used  to  do  'most  every 
which  way  to  outwit  him.  Well,  he  need  n't  ha' 
troubled  himself.     I  never  got  her." 


ROSY  BALM  137 

"  She  married  Elder  Hale,  did  n't  she  ?  "  asked 
Miss  Arietta,  swaying  back  and  forth,  in  a  plea- 
sant muse  of  recollection.  "  'T  was  her  grand- 
son that  preached  down  to  Sudleigh,  t'  other 
Sunday." 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  old  man, — "yes.  There 
ain't  nobody  to  carry  on  my  name.  But  I  '11 
carry  it  myself,"  he  added  presently,  looking  up 
with  his  warm  smile.  **  I  ain't  hurt  it  much  yet, 
an'  I  don't  believe  I  shall  now.  It  '11  last  as 
long  as  my  headstone  does,  an'  mebbe  some- 
body '11  be  glad  to  hear  it  in  the  next  world." 

They  went  hand  in  hand  over  the  backward 
track  of  the  town  life.  Miss  Arietta  had  heard 
so  many  stories  of  the  olden  time  that  it  seemed 
to  her  as  if  she  were  of  an  equal  age  with  him, 
and  that  they  were  walking  along  a  pleasant 
road  among  shadowy  scenes,  unchanging  now 
forever,  and  so  incapable  of  hurting  them  any 
more.  For  they  could  reject  the  ill  of  those 
ultimate  times  and  revive  only  the  good.  The 
clock  struck,  and  Miss  Arietta  rose. 

**  If  you  're  goin'  to  passon's,"  she  said, 
"you  '11  have  to  be  gittin'  along.  So  must  I, 
too.  See  here.  Uncle  Blake,  I  dunno  's  you 
care  anything  about  birthday  presents.  I  never 
had  but  one  in  my  life.  That 's  when  I  was 
seventeen,  an'  I  set  the  world  by  it.  Here,  you 
take  this.     It 's  a  kind  of  a  lotion  for  your  hands. 


138  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

I  gi'n  Mis'  Hardy  some  jest  like  it,  t'  other  day. 
You  tell  her  you  've  got  some,  too." 

"Well,"  said  Uncle  Blake,  "I  never!"  He 
stood  there  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  the  bottle 
in  his  hand.  Miss  Arietta,  who  had  meant  only 
to  be  kind,  was  amazed  at  finding  that  she  had 
been  something  more  to  a  degree  she  could  not 
understand.  "I  don't  know,"  continued  Uncle 
Blake  slowly,  "  as  I  've  had  such  a  present  sence 
I  was  twenty-one.  I  had  one  then.  Adelaide 
True  was  out  by  the  wall  that  day,  when  I  went 
by,  an'  she  reached  over  an'  gi'n  me  a  Provence 
rose.  This  —  I  believe  to  my  soul,  Arietta, 
you  've  put  rose  into  this,  too." 

The  tears  were  in  Arietta's  eyes. 

"  It 's  Rosy  Balm,"  she  said,  with  a  brisk 
cheerfulness.  "That's  what  I  call  it  —  Rosy 
Balm.  You  use  it.  Uncle  Blake.  Good-by. 
Le'  's  shake  hands  once  more,  for  sake  of  old 
times.     Good-by." 

Hurrying  along  the  road,  with  her  head  down, 
she  took  up  a  corner  of  her  shawl  and  wiped  her 
eyes. 

"Law!"  she  said,  smiling  and  crying  at  once. 
"  I  should  think  I  wa'n't  more  'n  two  year  old. 
—  Why,   Jane  Dunham,  that  you.?" 

Jane  lived  in  the  next  house,  but  she  was 
speeding  along  in  her  best  bonnet  and  shawl,  a 
small  neat  woman  with  a  round  face  and  young, 


ROSY  BALM  139 

pathetic  eyes.  Jane  caught  Arietta's  hand,  as 
it  lay  under  her  shawl,  and  held  it.  She  was  all 
sensibility,  and  quick  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 
Why  she  did  not  know,  nor  did  Arietta:  but 
every  one  was  used  to  Jane  Dunham's  kindly 
tears. 

"You  comin'  to  pass  the  day,  'Letta.^"  she 
asked.  "  I  was  goin'  on  down  to  the  Corners  to 
git  me  some  samples,  but  I  'd  ruther  by  half 
turn  back  home  an'  set  with  you." 

"No,  no,  I  'm  full  o'  business.  I  've  talked 
away  most  o'  the  mornin'  a'ready.  Look-a- 
here,  Jane.  I  got  suthin'  here  in  my  bag." 
She  made  her  way  out  into  the  snow  by  the  side 
of  the  road,  and  set  her  bag  on  a  stump,  to  open 
it.  Jane  was  instantly  by  her  side,  her  bright 
eyes  questioning. 

"  Rosy  Balm ! "  she  read,  taking  the  bottle  and 
holding  it  at  a  comfortable  distance.  "Land 
sakes,  'Letta!  what's  that?" 

Arietta's  eyes  were  shining.  Now  at  last  she 
seemed  to  have  entered  on  the  fruitage  of  her 
plan. 

"  It 's  some  trade  I  mixed  up  for  chapped 
hands,"  she  explained.  "It 's  got  glycerine  in 
it  an'  rose-water"  — 

"  'T  ain't  that  old  receipt  Aunt  Silvy  used  to 
be  so  private  about!" 

"  Yes,  't  is.     I  found  it  in  her  desk,  arter  she 


140  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

died.  Did  n't  I  tell  you  that  ?  Well,  I  found  it, 
an'  I  used  it,  an'  mine  's  jest  as  good  as  her'n." 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  a  knowing  tri- 
umph. They  had  both  had  long  experience  of 
Aunt  Silvy.  It  had  not  seemed  that  the  clever- 
est could  outwit  her,  even  after  death. 

"You  remember  how  we  used  to  go  there  to 
tea.''"  asked  Jane.  "Little  mites  we  were,  an' 
scared  eenamost  to  death,  she  was  so  toppin' 
with  us.  There  was  one  arternoon  we  made 
poppy  dolls  an'  tea  sets  in  the  gardin  an'  she 
ketched  us  — " 

"An'  said  them  were  the  very  poppies  she  was 
savin'  for  seed!" 

Their  faces  creased  into  a  wrinkled  mirth. 
They  were  two  staid  elderly  women  lingering  by 
a  snow-bank,  with  the  mind's  eye  fixed  upon  a 
sunny  past. 

"You  remember  the  time  when  she  told  you 
to  git  me  a  cooky  out  o'  the  parlor  cluset "  — 

"An'  I  went  in  an'  sliced  us  both  off  a  junk  o' 
fruit  cake  an'  hid  it  under  my  tyer!  I  guess  I 
do." 

"If  ever  there  was  two  tykes,  'Letta,"  said 
Jane,  with  relish,  "  't  was  you  an'  me.  To 
think  you  've  got  that  receipt,  too,  arter  all  these 
years." 

Arietta  spoke  immediately,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that  her  voice  came  forth  without  her  will: 


ROSY  BALM  141 

"You  take  it,  Jane.  You  take  this  vial. 
'T  will  kinder  bring  back  old  times,  an'  it  '11 
keep  your  hands  good,  too."  She  shut  her  bag, 
and  strode  out  in  the  road  again. 

Jane  followed.     Her  eyes  were  wet  with  tears. 

"  You  did  n't  come  'way  up  here  to  give  this 
to  me,  'Letta.P"  she  asked  meltingly. 

"You  keep  it,"  Arietta  counseled,  moving  on 
her  way.  "  It 's  got  a  real  good  smell.  I  guess 
't  will  bring  back  some  o'  them  old  times." 

"Come  down  next  week,"  Jane  was  calling, 
and  Arietta  nodded  and  waved  her  hand. 

At  this  point  Arietta  omitted  to  scorn  herself. 
She  tried  to  act  as  if  she  had  meant  to  do  nothing 
in  the  world  but  come  out  and  give  away  bottles 
that  were  made  to  sell.  Arrived  at  the  Veaseys' 
house,  she  passed  it  with  a  fleeting  glance. 
They  were  old-maid  sisters  who  would  skin  a 
flint  or  split  a  shilling.  Then  there  was  Miss 
Susannah  Means,  who  lived  alone  with  her 
brother  and  did  good  works.  She  was  sitting 
by  the  window,  a  faded  little  woman  with  an 
eager  glance,  and  all  one  sandy  color  from  hair 
to  skin.  Arietta  opened  the  side  door  and 
walked  in  upon  her,  and  Susannah  glanced  up 
warmly  without  moving  otherwise. 

"  Set  right  down,"  she  said,  in  her  high  treble. 
"Lay  off  your  things.  I  ain't  got  a  minute  to 
give,  or  I  'd  take  'em  for  ye." 


142  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"For  the  land  sake,  Susannah,"  said  Arietta, 
advancing  upon  her,  "what  you  doin'?" 

Scraps  of  coarse  lace  lay  in  Susannah's  lap, 
with  knots  of  bright-red  worsted. 

"  I  'm  runnin'  up  some  candy-bags  for  the 
tree,"  she  explained,  stabbing  her  needle  in  and 
out.  "  Do  lay  off  your  things.  I  'm  worried  to 
death,  too.  They  say  there  's  two  families  — 
them  miserable  Hendersons  landed  at  the  poor- 
farm  this  week,  an'  six  child'en  between  'em,  an' 
if  they  go  to  the  tree  like  's  not  there  won't  be  a 
present  for  'em,  less'n  we  can  scrape  up  suthin'." 

Miss  Arietta's  mittened  hand  was  at  her  bag. 
Her  eyes  gleamed  defiantly  behind  their  glasses. 

"Law,  Susannah,  don't  you  be  concerned," 
she  said.  "  Here  's  suthin'.  You  look-a-here." 
One  after  another  she  took  out  six  bottles,  and 
pushing  back  the  worsted  on  the  table,  ranged 
them  there  in  a  soldierly  row.  Susannah  looked 
up  over  her  glasses,  and  then  took  one  of  them 
in  her  hand. 

"Rosy  Balm,"  she  read.  "What  kind  o' 
trade  is  that.  Arietta.^" 

"  It 's  a  nice  scented  wash  to  put  on  your 
hands,"  returned  Arietta  proudly.  "You  can 
tie  some  slips  o'  paper  on  'em  an'  mark  'em  for 
them  poor  little  creatur's  that  ain't  got  nothin' 
else.  Mebbe  they  'd  like  a  jumpin'-jack  or  a 
doll ;  but  ye  have  to  give  what  ye  can,  an'  I  made 


ROSY  BALM  143 

this,  an'  I  can 't  make  nothin'  else.  Good  day, 
Susannah." 

But  Susannah  was  sitting  in  a  pleasant  dream, 
holding  the  bottle  in  her  hand  and  saying  to 
herself: 

"Rosy  Balm!     Forever!     Rosy  Balm!" 

Arietta  saw  that  there  were  visions  before  her 
of  little  paupers  in  winter  quarters,  soothing 
rough  hands  and  smelling  at  the  bottles.  She 
had  done  well.  Yet  again  she  tried  not  to  jeer 
at  herself,  though  her  bag  was  very  light.  Ar- 
ietta stopped  at  the  fence  on  the  way  out,  and 
rested  the  bag  there  while  she  sought  within  it. 

"  One  bottle ! "  she  ejaculated.  "  Well,  if  I  'd 
ha'  known"  —  but  if  she  had  known,  would  it 
have  been  different  ?  Her  mouth  widened  in  a 
whimsical  smile,  and  again  she  spoke:  '*I  might 
as  well  give  this  away,  quick  's  ever  I  can,  so  's 
not  to  break  my  record.  No,  I  won't,  either. 
I  '11  be  whipped  if  I  will.  I  '11  seU  it,  or  I  'U 
die  for  't." 

"Ride?"  called  Cap'n  Tom. 

He  pulled  up  at  the  gate,  in  his  shabby  old 
wagon,  and  waited  for  her.  The  cap'n  was  a 
thin  man  with  a  lean  face,  a  satirical  mouth,  and 
about  his  eyes  certain  lines  that  nobody  Hked. 
Yet  they  liked  the  cap'n.  He  had  a  great  fund 
of  dry  humor;  but  he  was  a  stingy  man.  He 
owned  it  frankly. 


144  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"I  set  the  world  by  money,"  he  often  said. 
"I  like  to  see  it  roll  up  same  's  a  boy  loves  to 
roll  a  snowball.  'T  ain't  much  importance, 
snow  nor  money  neither,  but  it 's  terrible  ex- 
citin'  to  see  'em  grow."  His  title  came  from 
that,  and  clung  to  him.  He  was  a  captain  of 
swift  enterprise. 

"I  'm  goin'  along  home,"  said  Arietta,  paus- 
ing with  her  foot  on  the  step. 

"  So  'm  I.  Git  in.  How  are  ye,  'Letta  ?  "  he 
asked,  when  they  were  jogging  along. 

"I  dunno',"  returned  Arietta  recklessly. 
"  I  'm  pretty  well  in  health,  but  I  've  got  reason 
to  think  my  mind  's  affected.  I  guess  I  'm  a 
born  fool." 

The  cap'n  flicked  his  horse  and  chuckled. 

"Common  complaint,"  said  he. 

"  Cap'n,"  began  Arietta,  out  of  the  fullness  of 
experience,  "  I  'm  goin'  to  tell  you  suthin',  an'  if 
you  ever  pass  it  on  to  anybody  else,  I  '11  set  your 
barn  afire.  My  brother  Tom  used  to  say  you 
was  the  closest-mouthed  feller  in  the  county." 

"I  guess  that's  right,"  said  the  cap'n, 
with  pride.  "Close-fisted  an'  close-mouthed. 
That 's  right." 

Then  Miss  Arietta  began  and  told  him  the 
story  of  her  day.  He  did  not  speak,  and  she 
turned  and  looked  at  him.  The  cap'n  was 
shaking  silently. 


ROSY  BALM  145 

"I  s'pose  you  think  it 's  funny,"  said  Arietta, 
smiling  herself  unwillingly.  "  Well,  mebbe  't  is ; 
but  if  you  was  the  one  to  do  it,  you  'd  laugh  out 
o'  t'  other  side  o'  your  mouth." 

"Took  'em  out  to  sell,  did  ye?"  asked  the 
cap'n. 

"Yes,  I  took  'em  out  to  sell." 

"An'  gi'n  'em  all  away?" 

"  All  but  one  bottle.  You  need  n't  ask  for  't, 
cap'n.  I  would  n't  give  it  away  for  love  nor 
money." 

The  cap'n  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
said :  "  You  take  the  reins.  Arietta."  He  unbut- 
toned his  coat,  thrust  a  hand  deep  into  his 
pocket,  and  brought  out  a  roll  of  bills.  "Ar- 
ietta," said  the  cap'n  slowly,  "  last  week  I  sold  a 
yoke  of  oxen.  To-day  I  driv'  over  to  git  my 
pay.     You  pass  me  out  that  trade." 

He  took  the  reins,  and  Arietta  sought  within 
her  bag  and  gave  him  her  last  vial.  The  cap'n 
took  it  gravely,  held  it  far  off  and  read  the  title, 
"Rosy  Balm."  Then  he  put  it  in  his  pocket, 
pulled  a  bank-note  from  his  roll,  and  passed  it  to 
her.  After  that  he  tucked  the  money  into  his 
pocket  and  buttoned  it  up  again.  "I  dunno', 
Arietta,"  said  he,  "  as  I  ever  give  any  money  to 
foreign  missions ;  but  if  you  want  to  turn  that  in, 
you  can.  I  dunno  's  ever  I  heerd  anything  that 
pleased  me  more  'n  your  goin'  out  peddlin' ; 


146  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

I  'm  a  close  man,  but  it 's  wuth  that  amount  o' 
money  to  me." 

Arietta  sat  looking  at  the  bill,  in  bright  amaze. 

"My  land,  cap'n,"  she  said  at  length,  "you 
know  what  you  've  gi'n  me  ?  It 's  a  five-dollar 
bill." 

Instinctively  he  turned  to  look  at  it,  and  Ar- 
ietta laid  her  hand  upon  the  reins. 

"Here,"  she  called,  in  high  excitement,  "you 
le'  me  git  right  out  an'  go  in  an'  hand  it  over  to 
passon."  She  was  out  over  the  wheel  before  the 
horse  had  stopped.  There  she  faced  the  cap'n, 
flushed  and  smiling.  "I  dunno  's  I  could  ha' 
trusted  ye  through  that  strip  o'  woods,  cap'n," 
she  called.  "  You  might  ha'  repented  an' 
ketched  it  away  from  me.  Much  obleeged  to 
ye.     Good-by." 

She  sped  up  the  path  to  the  minister's  door, 
and  the  cap'n  drove  on  chuckling.  He  was  the 
poorer  by  five  dollars,  and  there  was  a  small  sore 
spot  in  his  heart.  But  he  reflected  on  the  story, 
and  laughed  again. 

"Rosy  Balm!"  he  wheezed,  and  pondered. 
"Rosy  Balm!" 


A  SEA  CHANGE 


'     OP  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 

CALirCB^ 


A  SEA  CHANGE 

The  day  was  an  April  one,  full  of  light  from  the 
nearer  leaves  and  the  green  mist  of  their  assem- 
bling where  woods  are  deep.  All  the  atoms 
were  in  motion,  and  a  harmony  of  swelling  buds 
lay,  ready  to  be  guessed,  under  the  rhythm  of 
running  water.  A  thousand  little  streams  broke 
from  the  mountain,  and  played  the  game  of 
foUow-my-fancy  down  the  valleys  and  into  the 
arms  of  the  big  water  courses  which  knew  all 
about  it.  Birds,  in  an  ecstasy  for  nesting, 
juggled  wildly  with  melodic  phrases,  and  tried 
the  trick  of  keeping  three  notes  in  the  air  at 
once ;  sound  grew  into  substance  and  dripped 
delight.  The  whole  bare  page  of  early  spring  lay 
illumined,  like  a  delicate  green  window  with  the 
sun  upon  it.  Even  Elephantis,  the  mountain^ 
turned  into  a  purple  majesty  cut  out  of  air  and 
fervent  for  the  day. 

In  the  little  dark  house  under  the  very  shadow 
of  the  mountain,  on  the  side  where  firs  grow 
close,  there  had  been  all  the  morning  a  clatter 
of  brisk  workmanship,  the  noise  of  mop  and 
broom.  Cynthia  Miller  was  cleaning,  with  the 
passionate  ardor  of  one  who  either  loves  her  task 


150  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

or  strides  through  it  to  some  desired  goal.  Now 
she  threw  braided  rugs  out  of  the  window  upon 
the  bank,  pierced  only  lately  by  needles  of  new 
grass,  and,  pulling  out  a  drawer  from  her  bed- 
room bureau,  carried  it  into  the  parlor  to  pick 
over.  Such  haste  impelled  her  that  she  tried  to 
do  everything  at  once,  and  tripped  herself  up  in 
the  snare  of  her  own  eagerness.  This  was  the 
last  room  to  be  set  in  order;  to-morrow  the  house 
would  be  clean.  Thinking  that,  she  passed  an 
unsteady  hand  over  her  forehead,  smoothed  out 
the  rough  hair  above  it,  and  sighed  in  extremity 
of  desire.  Standing  there  over  the  drawer,  she 
abandoned  herself  to  work  again,  with  a  speed 
so  quickened  that  it  seemed  as  if  her  hands 
darted  and  pounced  in  their  assorting.  Some- 
times she  held  up  an  article  to  the  light  to  note 
whether  it  needed  darn  or  patch.  Her  frowning 
scrutiny  looked  like  the  hysteria  of  labor,  neither 
supported  by  physical  strength,  nor  clad  in  the 
armor  of  an  enforced  control.  She  had  been 
pretty  once,  of  a  brown  type  with  a  flush  under 
the  skin  and  smooth,  plump  outlines.  Now  she 
looked  a  haggard  sprite,  old  too  soon:  her  eyes 
seeking  some  remedy  for  perplexing  ills,  and  the 
intention  of  the  piquant  nose  quite  spoiled  by 
two  transverse  wrinkles  at  the  base.  A  lumber- 
ing step  sounded  in  the  kitchen,  and  she  stood 
arrested,  listening.    The  lines  in  her  forehead 


A  SEA  CHANGE  151 

multiplied;  anxious  care  was  enhanced  by  an 
added  inscription  of  annoyance,  anger  even. 

"Ain't  you  gone  yet?"  she  muttered,  and 
then,  as  if  some  tormented  spirit  cried  for  its 
own  relief  and  urged  her  on,  "My  soul!  can't  I 
have  a  minute's  peace  in  this  house?" 

"Cynthy!"  called  her  husband  from  the 
kitchen.  The  voice  was  dulled,  not  by  inten- 
tion, but  the  lack  of  it.  "  Cynthy,  where  be  you  ?  " 

She  stood  as  still  as  one  of  those  little  brown 
creatures  on  the  trees,  when  they  straighten 
themselves  into  twigs  at  the  approach  of  other 
life.  Her  eyes  narrowed.  She  looked  not  so 
much  frightened  as  immovably  perverse.  If  he 
wanted  her,  he  should  not  have  her,  only  be- 
cause he  wanted.  Then  he  called  again,  and 
she  heard  his  step  coming  her  way.  It  sounded 
blundering,  as  it  always  did  in  the  house:  an 
inexact  step  not  quite  conscious  whither  it  was 
bound,  in  these  strange  latitudes  of  wall  and 
window,  and  better  adapted  to  wide  barns  or 
the  uncertainties  of  ploughed  fields. 

"  Well,"  called  Cynthia  sharply  from  her  trap, 
"what's  wanted?" 

At  that  instant  he  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
and  filled  it  with  the  effect  of  brawn  and  vigor. 
He  was  a  son  of  the  soil,  made  out  of  earth,  and 
not  many  generations  removed  from  that  mater- 
nity.    His  thick  hair  and  bristling  brown  beard 


152  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

gave  his  head  a  fictitious  size,  and  his  calm 
brown  eyes  showed  only  an  honest  and  quite 
unconscious  acquiescence  in  the  lot  of  man. 
Even  here,  within  four  walls,  the  outdoor  world 
claimed  him  for  its  own  with  crude  assertiveness. 
Straws  clung  to  him.  Dark  loam  caked  his  fur- 
rowed boots,  and  the  smell  of  animal  life  flew 
before  him  like  a  proclaiming  aura.  Cynthia 
could  not  look  at  him.  She  bent  over  the 
drawer  and  assorted  swiftly,  turning  the  clothes 
as  if  she  sought  a  corner  for  hiding. 

"Well,"  she  repeated,  with  the  same  chal- 
lenging sharpness,  "what's  wanted.?" 

But  if  her  voice  bore  any  new  meaning  that 
day,  Timothy  was  deaf  to  it. 

"  I  've  greased  my  t'  other  pair  o'  boots,"  he 
announced,  in  that  throaty  rumble  calculated  to 
leave  the  tongue  an  idle  life.  "  I  shall  want  'em 
this  arternoon,  when  I  go  down  along,  fencin'. 
I  set  'em  by  the  oven  door.  I  thought  I  'd 
tell  ye." 

"Well." 

"  We  might  as  well  have  dinner  by  'leven.  I 
want  to  make  a  long  arternoon  on  't." 

"I '11  see  to  it." 

Amply  satisfied,  he  turned  about  and  went 
plodding  out  of  doors.  She  drew  her  breath 
sharply,  and  listened.  Those  steps  had  two 
meanings  for  her  nowadays.     W^hen  they  ap- 


A  SEA  CHANGE  153 

preached,  she  shuddered,  and  her  flesh  crawled. 
At  their  withdrawal,  she  found  it  possible  to 
keep  half  alive.  But  when  she  heard  his  guid- 
ing remarks  addressed  to  the  oxen,  while  the  old 
cart  went  creaking  out  of  the  yard,  at  a  mea- 
sured pace,  she  gave  way  to  an  impulse  likely  to 
afford  her  infinite  relief  for  the  moment,  even  if 
it  had  to  be  repented.  She  flashed  into  the 
kitchen  with  the  unerring  step  of  the  housewife 
made  to  carry  domestic  business  through  tri- 
umphant crises,  and  swooped  down  upon  the 
heavy  boots  standing,  redolent  of  grease,  by  the 
oven  door.  Her  nervous  hands  fell  upon  them 
murderously,  as  if  they  represented  a  misery 
borne  to  the  last  gasp,  and,  taking  them  out  into 
the  yard,  she  threw  them  as  far  as  her  strength 
would  serve. 

"There!"  said  she,  with  a  flash  of  obstinate 
malice,  nodding  at  the  mountain,  "  I  've  done  so 
much.  I  wish  I  could  throw  'em  over  you.  I 
wonder  what  you  'd  say  to  that!"  Then  she 
went  back  again,  and  with  some  temporary  com- 
posure addressed  herself  to  work.  A  victory 
over  the  boots  showed  some  tangible  advance- 
ment; it  promised  more. 

The  mountain  had  made  an  intimate  part  of 
all  Cynthia's  married  life.  When  she  came  up 
here  from  the  plains  to  settle,  it  seemed  to  her, 
without  much  diflficult  thought  on  the  matter. 


154  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

as  if  there  were  something  unlike  other  wed- 
dings in  this  pilgrimage  uphill  to  live  under  the 
shadow  of  Elephantis.  From  her  old  home,  sold 
now  into  the  hands  of  strangers,  it  uplifted  a 
mystical  outline,  to  be  grasped  only  in  the  clear- 
est weather.  Here  it  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  her 
freeholding.  Then  the  attitude  of  the  world 
unconsciously  swayed  her  mind  and  roused  in 
her  the  pride  of  place.  Year  after  year,  with 
the  quickening  of  summer,  crowds  of  people 
sought  out  Elephantis  and  grew  voluble  in 
wonder  before  its  purple  glories.  In  the  winter, 
there  were  sometimes  paragraphs  in  the  local 
paper  relative  to  daring  ones  who  had  "gone 
up  "  the  season  before,  and  the  county  was  never 
tired  of  talking  about  the  party  which  had  got 
lost  there  and,  straying  into  Dutchman's  Gulf, 
suffered  two  nights  of  hunger  and  fear.  All 
these  dramas,  inspired  by  an  adventurous  world, 
were  played  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountain : 
yet  Cynthia  felt  them  to  be  hers  alone.  It  was 
her  mountain;  and  for  many  years  she  studied 
its  varying  aspects  under  sun  and  snow,  and 
even,  one  spring  when  her  husband  was  logging, 
cut  herself  a  little  path  through  the  bushes,  fan- 
tastically hoping  to  reach  the  top,  as  we  plan  for 
what  can  never  happen.  But  all  this  had  be- 
longed to  her  youth.  She  was  forty  years  old 
now,  and  the  mountain  seemed  too  near.     Yet 


A  SEA  CHANGE  155 

still  it  remained  the  unmoved  witness  of  her 
actions,  a  hateful  censor  as  unyielding  as  if  it 
had  been  appointed  by  God  himself.  She  was 
bitterly  angry  with  it,  as  she  was  with  her  hus- 
band; but  in  her  anger  against  the  mountain 
was  mingled  the  alloy  of  fear. 

When  Timothy  came  home  to  dinner  at 
eleven,  there  were  no  outer  signs  of  homely 
tragedy.  The  house  wore  a  beautiful  order, 
and  his  boots  stood  by  the  oven  door  as  he  had 
left  them,  their  toes  pointing  rigorously.  A 
whirlwind  of  passion  had  swept  them  forth,  and 
expediency,  not  in  the  least  tempered  by  repent- 
ance, had  brought  them  in  again.  Cynthia's 
dinner  table  shone  with  care.  The  white  cloth 
was  ironed  so  smooth  and  glossy,  the  glasses 
gleamed  so  bright,  that  one  looked  about  for  the 
story  of  such  serving, —  to  find  it  either  in  love 
or  in  that  dull  habit  made  to  break  the  spirit  and 
drive  women  early  to  old  age.  Timothy  was 
conscious  of  having  a  good  dinner,  but  not  so 
keenly  as  if  he  did  not  have  one  every  day.  Yet 
even  to  him  the  house  wore  an  odd  aspect  of 
Sabbath  calm. 

"Got  your  spring  cleanin'  done?"  he  asked 
Cynthia,  upon  a  mouthful  of  potato  and  fried 
apple.  She  nodded,  sitting  opposite  him  and 
not  looking  up,  even  when  she  passed  him  food 
and  drink.     Her  own  plate  was  bare,  and  she 


156  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

swallowed  her  strong  tea  thirstily  and  with  a 
greedy  purpose. 

"I  finished  this  forenoon,"  she  said,  and, 
without  her  wish,  some  exultation  cried  out  in 
her  voice.  It  had  not  seemed  possible  that 
desire  could  ripen  so. 

Timothy  glanced  at  her  from  time  to  time. 
Usually  he  only  looked  at  her  as  he  did  at  the 
clock,  when  he  wanted  to  know  something;  but 
now  the  restlessness  in  her  atmosphere  chal- 
lenged and  piqued  him.  So  he  became  aware 
of  her  empty  plate. 

"  You  ain't  eat  a  mouthful,"  he  announced,  in 
more  wonder  than  concern,  and  Cynthia's  fore- 
head contracted  a  little  closer. 

"I  'm  more  dry  than  hungry,"  she  answered 
evasively ;  and  he  pushed  the  sausage  nearer  her, 
saying,  with  a  neutral  kindliness  which  she  had 
once  known  to  be  his  equivalent  for  affection, 
"Help  yourself!" 

But  she  only  shook  her  head  and  poured  more 
tea.  Presently  he  rose,  took  down  his  pipe  from 
the  mantel,  lighted  it  luxuriously,  and  drew  on 
his  waiting  boots,  —  the  boots  which  could  have 
told  a  story.  When  he  held  them  up  for  scru- 
tiny, Cynthia  had  a  tempting  toward  hysterical 
laughter.  She  wondered  what  he  would  say  if 
he  knew  they  had  spent  most  of  their  morning 
lying  out  in  the  old  cabbage  bed.     Then  he 


A  SEA  CHANGE  157 

poked  his  way  out  of  the  house,  and  presently 
she  saw  him  striding  off  to  the  pasture  whither 
he  had  drawn  his  fencing  stuff  that  morning. 
She  did  not  stay  to  do  her  dishes;  other  things 
were  betiding.  From  the  best  bedroom  she 
dragged  out  the  hair  trunk  which  had  held  her 
wedding  things  when  she  came  up  to  live  with 
the  mountain,  and  tugged  it  through  the  shed  to 
the  barn,  where  she  managed  to  lift  it  into  the 
back  of  the  wagon.  She  propped  up  the  lid, 
and  ran  back  into  the  house  for  the  bundles  of 
clothing  which  had  lain  ready  for  many  days. 
So  the  trunk  was  packed,  and  the  key  trium- 
phantly turned.  Then  Cynthia,  breathless,  but, 
she  was  sure,  possessed  of  strength  equivalent  to 
all  demands,  led  out  old  John,  the  horse  of  many 
summers,  and  harnessed  him,  praying  Heaven 
the  breeching  might  not  have  been  shortened  for 
Doll.  John  showed  no  wonderment  while  she 
threw  a  shawl  over  her  calico  dress  and  tied  on 
her  bonnet  and  veil.  When  she  climbed  into  the 
wagon,  he  pricked  his  ears  a  little,  but  it  was 
only  as  the  whip  fell  upon  him,  going  down  the 
rough  mountain  road,  that  he  betrayed  any  per- 
sonal responsibility  in  the  affair.  A  winter  of 
oats  and  idleness  had  left  him  well  equipped  for 
one  so  far  within  the  vale  of  years,  and  a  remnant 
of  his  old  spirit  served  him.  So  he  put  his  feet 
down  creditably,  and  Cynthia  drove,  looking 


nriiii 


158  THE  COUNTY  ROAD    ^T;  » 

neither  upon  field  nor  sky,  and  mindful  oi  n6r 
road.  The  April  day  was  dulling  under  a  hue 
of  gray,  not  rain,  nor  even  mist.  It  was  only  a 
color  come  with  the  waxing  hour,  and  full  of 
sadness.  It  fitted  her  mood  more  closely  than 
the  bold  radiance  of  morning;  all  the  tender 
shades  of  loam  and  springing  lelaf  seemed  to  fall 
in  with  her  expectations,  and^bow  her  how  soon 
youth  may  be  over.  We  do  not  need  to  formu- 
late these  things,  and  chant  antiphonal  responses  ^ 
of  nature  to  the  human  mind.  The  heart  per- 
ceives them,  and  as  we  live,  w^  know;.  *  f 

All  winter  Jong  she  had  not  driven  these*  eSg 
miles  down  to  the  village  where  her  errand  lay. 
Once  it  had  seemed  a  festival  like  the  breaking 
of  icy  bonds;  but  now,  with  all  her  thoughts 
turned  inward  upon  one  numbing  point,  she  got  S| 
what  she  could,  out  of  the  horse,  and  thought  ;lj 
only  of  time.  The  village  stores  were  not  for  her' ,  J| 
that  afternoon.  She  drove  straight  to  the  little  \i 
station,  and  called  the  lank  and  introspective'  ! 
station  master,  loitering  in  idleness  between  his  H  \\ 
two  trains  a  day.  ^  ^  '    •  li 

"  Here,  you ! "  cried  Cynthia,  "  should  ybu  jest      * 
as  soon  lift  out  this  trunk  ?  "  i; 

No  men  folks  being  with  her,  of  whom  ta  ex- 
act the  toll  of  a  helping  hand,  he  l^t  down  the 
tailpiece  of  the  wagon  and  dragged  her  treasure 
forth j  impersonally  and  with  no  concern.  '  *  \ 


hi 

.  f|  ^  5>        A  SEA  CHANGE  159 

Cynthia  wrinkled  her  brows. 

"He  need  n't  ha'  slat  it  so,"  she  murmured  to 

herself,  and  then  remembering  that  he  must 

'  h^lp  her  further,  she  snioothed  her  feelings  and 

continued,  "I  ain't  goin'  to-day.     Can't  you 

keep  it  som'er's  till  to-morxer  —  till  I  come  ?" 

He  shouldered  it,  still  dumbly,  and  watching 

*  hiiia  to  the  door  of  the  baggage  room,  she  won- 
^red  whether  it  was  well  to  trust  an  unknown 
A|an  s6  far. 

"You  keep  an  eye  on  it,"  she  besought  him. 
"I  '11  be  here  to-morrer  —  not  a  day  later." 

J3ut  his  heights  of  contemplation  included  no- 
thing /lear,  and  she  turned  about  under  her  first 
actual  sense  of  the  lions  in  an  unfamiliar  way. 
.u  ,  Their  homeward  progress  had  to  be  longer, 
.  I  because  it  was  over  rising  ground,  and  John 
fcoul4..not  be  urged.     Still,  though  it  was  late 

*  afternoon  before  they  reached  the  little  house, 
i  they  were  in  time.     The  barn  door  was  closed. 

•  Timothy  had  not  appeared.    When  he  did  come, 
more  of  the  toiling  earth  than  ever  after  his  hours 

I    'of  work,  John  was  in  the  stall,  and  Cynthia  stood 
a^^the  sink  washing  dishes.     The  unique  nature 
/  of  Jier  occupation  at  that  hour  in  the  day  struck 
upjoti  Timothy,  as  he  came  through  for  the  milk 

•  pail.     Sa  methodical  was  their  life  that  even  so 

•  slight  a  deviation  was  like  a  heartbeat  dropped, 
.  to  be  accounted  for. 


160  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"Ain't  you  done  your  dinner  dishes?"  he 
asked,  in  self-evident  statement. 

"I  'm  doin'  'em  now,"  said  Cynthia  briefly. 

"What  d'ye  wait  for.?" 

"I  got  hendered."  He  inquired  no  further, 
and  when  he  came  in  again  supper  was  ready,  a 
delicate  supper  with  hot  biscuits  and  quince  pre- 
serve. Cynthia  was  doing  her  duty  artistically 
to  the  last. 

That  night  she  lay  awake,  and  tried  to  keep 
her  eyes  from  the  window,  where  the  mountain 
hung  like  a  pall.  Timothy  was  sleeping  vocally, 
but  even  through  that  droning  note  she  heard 
the  beating  of  her  heart.  It  seemed  to  shake  the 
bed  and  her  with  it,  like  some  terrible  agent  out- 
side herself.  She  held  her  hand  upon  her  breast 
and  tried  to  breathe  serenely.  But  that  grim 
quickstep  gave  her  comfort,  after  all.  She  felt 
no  need  of  forgiveness ;  she  told  herself  that  when 
Timothy  heard  she  had  died  of  heart  disease,  he 
could  not  blame  her  for  whatever  she  had  done. 

Next  morning  breakfast  was  early,  and  Cyn- 
thia, clearing  it  away,  spoke  but  once,  —  to  the 
mountain.  She  had  kept  her  back  to  it  as  much 
as  possible  of  late,  but  somehow  it  filled  her 
vision  all  the  more ;  and  now,  when  she  went  out 
to  spread  her  dish  towels  on  the  brush,  it  grew 
and  grew,  as  if  it  would  engulf  her. 

"  Why  don't  you  get  into  the  winder,  if  you 


A  SEA  CHANGE  161 

want  to  ?  "  she  inquired,  scorning  it  at  last.  "  I 
would,  if  I 's  you." 

Very  soon  the  kitchen,  like  the  whole  house, 
was  beautifully  in  order,  and  Cynthia,  her  hair 
smooth  and  her  pathetic  little  hands  very  red, 
had  put  on  her  best  dress  —  an  alpaca  of  great 
age  and  worth  —  and  laid  her  bonnet  and  shawl 
on  the  table.  Then  she  stepped  to  the  door  and 
called  to  Timothy,  chopping  limbs  at  the  pile : 

"  You  come  in  here.     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

He  dropped  his  axe,  and  came,  stepping  a 
little  more  hastily  than  usual.  But  he  was  not 
used  to  being  summoned. 

"  You  cut  you  ?  "  he  asked.     "  You  fell  ?  " 

She  was  standing  near  the  kitchen  table,  one 
stark  hand  upon  it.  That  and  the  rigid  arm  up- 
held her. 

"There  's  bread  in  the  stone  jar,"  said  she. 
"  I  made  three  loaves,  all  I  da'st,  for  fear 't  would 
spile.  I  b'iled  a  leg  o'  bacon,  an'  the  blue  chist  's 
full  o'  mince  pies.  The  'taters  are  sprouted,  all 
but  what  you  set  by  to  plant." 

He  stared  at  her  in  a  wondering  concern.  She 
looked  unfamiliar  to  him ;  and  then  he  felt  a  little 
relief,  knowing  why. 

"  You  got  on  your  best  dress,"  said  he. 

Cynthia  went  on  with  the  inventory  of  her 
preparations. 

"The  house's  as  clean  as  a  ribbin.     I've 


162  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

swop  the  cellar,  too.  I  dunno'  what  more  I 
could  ha'  done." 

"Why,  no,"  agreed  Timothy  from  his  bewil- 
derment.    "I  dunno'  what  more  ye  could." 

"An'  now  I  'm  goin'down  to  Sister  Frances'." 

He  looked  upon  her  as  though  she  were  de- 
mented. 

"Not  'way  down  to  Penrith?" 

"Yes." 

"What  for.?" 

"To  make  'em  a  visit."  That  did  not  seem 
to  her  a  lie.     He  would  know  the  rest  later. 

"How  long  you  goin'  to  stay?" 

She  hesitated.     "  I  '11  let  ye  know,"  said  she. 

"When  ye  goin'?"  His  eyes  traveled  from 
her  black  gown  to  the  shabby  little  bonnet  on  the 
table,  and  he  read  his  answer  before  her  voice 
confirmed  it. 

"Now!" 

Timothy  turned  vaguely  toward  the  door. 
"Well,"  said  he,  "I  '11  harness  up.  You  git  out 
my  t'other  weskit." 

"I'm  goin'  now,  now  this  instant!"  cried 
Cynthia,  step|ling  before  him  »nd  reaching  the 
door  first.  The  folded  sh^wl  was  on  her  arm. 
She  tied  her  bonnet  rapidly  in  speaking. 

"  How  ye  goin'  to  ge'  down  there  to  the  rail- 
road?" • 

"I'm  goin'  to  walk."  ^ 


A  SEA  CHANGE  163 

"You  wait  a  minute." 

He  went  back  into  the  sitting-room,  and  Cyn- 
thia halted  just  outside  the  door,  because  she  did 
not  mean  to  leave  her  duty  at  loose  ends.  Obe- 
dience was  owing  him  until  she  turned  her  back 
on  him  and  on  the  mountain.  Timothy  had 
gone  to  find  the  broken-nosed  teapot  where  their 
little  store  of  money  lay;  but  at  the  cupboard  his 
wits  deserted  him,  and  he  took  one  of  the 
sprigged  china  cups  from  its  place,  went  to  the 
kitchen  sink  and  filled  it  from  the  pail.  When 
he  appeared  at  the  door  again,  he  was  drinking 
the  water,  and  Cynthia  opened  her  lips  to  chal- 
lenge the  use  of  that  china.  But  she  shut  them 
firmly.  It  was  his  china.  He  could  do  what  he 
chose  with  it. 

"That  all?"  she  asked. 

Timothy  came  forward  and  mechanically  put- 
ting out  his  hand,  took  up  a  dish  towel  from  the 
brush.  He  wiped  the  cup  with  it,  hard  and  fast. 
In  both  their  minds  rose  a  hasty  simile  that  this 
stood  for  the  housewifery  he  was  thenceforth  to 
do.  She  almost  gave  a  little  cry,  for  he  had 
wiped  off  the  deMcate  hanqj|^,  ani  it  fell  at  his 
feet.  But  Timothy  w^s  unconscious  of  it.  Cups 
might  easily  fall  when  worlds  were  falling  too. 

"Well,"  said  Cynthia,  "I'm  goin'."  She 
turned  abo^t  and  walked  away,  her  meagre  back 
instinckwith  purpose.     It  was  some  seconds  be- 


164  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

fore  her  husband  recovered  his  wits  and  voice; 
but  he  did  recover  them. 

"Here,  you!"  he  called.  "You  got  any 
change.?" 

She  nodded,  without  turning.  "  I  got  my  but- 
ter money!"  she  cried  into  the  distance;  and 
Timothy  heard.  Then  she  stepped  the  faster, 
and  when  the  road  dipped  into  shadow,  took  the 
side  that  would  hide  her  soonest  from  his  eyes. 

The  morning  was  still  young  and  very  full  of 
grace.  Flocks  of  blackbirds  were  flying  over, 
grinding  out  their  dissonant  melody,  more 
piquing  to  the  lover  of  New  England  springs 
than  any  nightingale  beside  his  rose.  The  world 
had  burgeoned  since  yesterday.  There  was  a  mi- 
raculous gloss  upon  the  leaves,  a  thought  larger 
than  they  had  been  twenty-four  hours  before. 
The  roadsides  were  lined  with  beauties  Cynthia 
had  known  well  in  the  first  years  of  her  married 
life,  when  wandering  was  not  a  burden :  hardy 
lady's  slipper  in  great  patches,  soon  to  be  pink 
with  puffy  bloom,  clintonia  springing  in  polished 
green,  and  the  clustering  leaf  of  fringed  poly- 
gala.  All  these  things  she  knew  by  sight,  though 
not  by  name,  as  she  knew  their  happy  haunts; 
yet  she  went  along  in  haste,  seeing  the  world, 
yet  not  seeing  it,  and  wondering  how  she  could 
ever  have  found  the  summer  time  so  bright. 
•       Her  eyes  threw  her  the  sheen  and  glory  of  things, 


A  SEA  CHANGE  165 

but  her  dull  brain  made  no  record.  Yet  not  be- 
cause it  failed  to  act,  for  thought  was  racing 
hotly,  and  she  planned  how  she  should  meet  her 
sister  and  tell  why  she  had  come.  All  winter 
long  she  had  brooded  upon  that  opening  speech, 
but  now  the  long  catalogue  had  resolved  itself 
into  one  last  irritation,  and  she  could  go  only 
thus  far: 

"  I  can't  live  with  him  no  longer.  I  'm  goin' 
to  support  myself."  Then  Frances  would  ask 
why,  and  she  would  say,  "  He  greases  his  boots 
so  much.  He  leaves  'em  by  the  oven  door." 
That  seemed  to  be  all  she  could  remember,  and 
quite  enough.     Any  woman  would  know. 

Now,  as  her  impatient  feet  went  beating  along 
the  road,  it  grew  to  be  incredible  that  she  had 
not  seen  Frances  in  all  these  years.  Yet  there 
had  been  reasons.  She  and  Timothy  never 
went  from  home,  and  Frances  had  her  one  child, 
deformed  or  sickly,  Cynthia  vaguely  knew.  But 
whatever  the  affliction  was,  it  made  a  reason  why 
the  father  and  mother  could  not  "go  abroad," 
even  to  so  near  a  port.  Now,  within  two  years, 
the  child  had  died  and  they  were  free.  Through 
her  hours  of  walking,  at  the  moment  when  she 
inquired  for  her  friendly  little  trunk  and  found 
it  safe,  through  the  terrible  railway  journey  with 
adventurers  and  worldly  folk  who  would  as  soon 
pick  your  pocket  as  not,  Cynthia  was  conscious 


166  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

of  two  things :  that  her  heart  was  beating  its  way 
out  of  her  body,  and  that  she  must  tell  Frances 
at  once  about  Timothy's  boots.  Not  a  moment 
must  be  lost.  She  sat  with  her  eyes  closed,  fly- 
ing and  jolting  through  an  alien  world.  And 
when  the  train  stopped  at  Penrith,  in  the  warm 
dusk  of  evening,  she  was  first  upon  the  platform. 
The  air  tasted  salt  in  her  nostrils,  and  she  noted 
through  her  desolation  the  tangible  signs  of  an 
unfamiliar  spot ;  it  meant  distance,  freedom,  and 
relief  from  fear.  Fresh  from  her  mountain  soli- 
tude, the  platform  with  its  scattering  loungers 
seemed  to  her  tumultuous;  all  the  men  were 
tanned,  and  they  talked  in  uncouth  fashion  quite 
unlike  her  own,  and  so  amazing.  She  fastened 
upon  one,  because  his  beard  was  gray,  and  asked 
him  chokingly: 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  Cap'n  Pritchard 
lives.?" 

"Goin'  over?" 

"Yes." 

"  Better  take  the  'commodation.  Set  ye  right 
down  at  the  door." 

"How  much  do  you  charge?" 

"Ten  cents." 

She  nodded,  and  stood  guard  over  her  little 
trunk  until  he  was  ready  to  take  it;  then  she  fol- 
lowed it  to  the  covered  wagon.  They  jolted 
away  into  the  darkness,  and  again  she  counted 


A  SEA  CHANGE  167 

her  pulse  and  thought  about  Timothy's  boots 
until  they  drew  up  at  a  house  on  what  seemed  a 
lonely  road. 

"Hullo  the  house!"  whooped  the  graybeard. 
He  shouldered  the  trunk,  and  Cynthia,  before 
him  at  the  door,  found  the  knocker  and  beat  a 
summons. 

There  was  a  gleam  of  coming  light,  and  the 
door  was  opened  by  a  tall  woman  with  peaceful 
eyes  and  smooth  white  hair. 

"I  'm  all  beat  out,"  gasped  Cynthia;  and  as 
she  would  have  fallen,  Frances  set  the  lamp 
down  with  one  motion,  and  caught  her  on  the 
other  arm.     The  boots  were  not  mentioned. 

Next  morning,  when  Cynthia  waked,  she  was 
lying  in  a  soft  bed,  and  the  eastern  light  lay 
warm  upon  the  coverlet.  The  chamber  was  not 
very  large,  and  the  roof  sloped  a  little  on  one 
side.  She  lay  looking  idly  at  the  paper,  thinking 
that  it  was  "sweet  pretty,"  all  over  roses  and 
buds.  Presently  there  was  a  stir  from  a  neigh- 
boring room,  and  Frances  stood  in  the  doorway, 
as  welcoming  and  tall  as  she  had  stood  in  the 
outer  one  the  night  before.  Cynthia  gazed  at 
her  hungrily. 

"Why,"  she  said,  at  last,  "you  ain't  got  a  line, 
in  your  face!" 

Frances  smiled  and  made  some.  She  disap- 
peared and  came  back  with  a  tray  of  breakfast. 


168  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"Be  I  goin'  to  eat  in  bed?"  asked  Cynthia 
wonderingly.     "I  ain't  so  sick  as  that." 

Frances  smiled  again,  and  patted  her  hand. 
Then  she  sugared  the  coffee  in  a  motherly  way, 
and  coaxed  her  to  drink.  Cynthia  believed  she 
was  not  hungry,  but  she  managed  to  eat  a  little ; 
and  after  a  while,  Frances  still  sitting  by  her,  she 
thought  she  would  tell  why  she  had  come.  But 
when  she  would  have  done  it,  her  heart  began 
beating,  and  beat  so  fast  that  it  turned  her  sick. 
So  she  only  said  again,  like  a  child, "  I  don't  mean 
to  make  you  trouble.    You  must  n't  do  for  me." 

"You  're  all  beat  out,"  said  Mrs.  Pritchard, 
recurring  to  Cynthia's  own  pathetic  phrasing. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  Cynthia  studying 
her  own  face  meanwhile  in  the  little  glass  over 
the  mantel,  and  then  coming  back  to  her  sister's. 

"You  're  ten  years  older  'n  I  be,"  she  said  at 
last,  in  that  same  wondering  voice.  "You  ain't 
got  hardly  a  line  in  your  face,  an'  only  look  at 
mine!     How  'd  you  know  me.^" 

Quick  tears  sprang  into  the  other  woman's 
eyes.  Her  voice  choked  upon  the  words:  "I 
knew  mother's  cameo  pin." 

Then  Cynthia  bethought  her  that,  although 
there  seemed  to  be  a  stir  of  passing  in  the  road, 
the  house  was  quiet.  "Where's  he?''  she 
asked.     "  Cap'n  Pritchard  ?  "  ^ 

"  Gone  clammin'.  They  have  to  go  when  the 
tide  serves." 


A  SEA  CHANGE  169 

"  If  I  tell  you  suthin',  do  you  feel  obleeged  to 
tell  him?" 

"Not  if  it  don't  anyways  concern  him." 

"  Then  —  no,  no,  I  can't  tell  it.  You  jest 
feel  how  my  heart  beats!" 

Frances  put  her  hand  over  the  fluttering  thing, 
and  her  eyes  were  troubled. 

"I  sent  over  for  doctor,"  she  said.  "I  guess 
that 's  his  tread  now.    Doctor,  that  you  ?" 

He  came  through  the  sitting-room  and  up  the 
narrow  stairs.  A  head  covered  with  thick  white 
hair  appeared  in  the  doorway.  The  face  be- 
fitted a  jolly  clergyman  of  many  years  ago,  a 
hunting  parson.  Cynthia  drew  the  sheet  to  her 
chin,  and  shook.  Suddenly  she  was  afraid,  not 
so  much  of  him,  as  of  returning  life.  It  had 
been  easy  enough,  a  moment  ago,  to  die  here  in 
peace,  at  the  heels  of  that  runaway  heart;  but 
they  were  going  to  drag  her  to  her  feet  again, 
and  she  felt  tired.  The  doctor  sat  down  beside 
the  bed,  and  took  her  hand.  He  looked  at  it, 
the  little  red  palm,  seamed  and  wrinkled,  and 
the  crooked  fingers  beckoning  for  some  obstinate 
good.     Then  he  looked  at  her. 

"How  long  have  you  lived  up  there  by  the 
mountain.?^"  he  a^ked. 

Cynthia  choked.  She  could  not  remember. 
It  seemed  far  away,  yet  the  later  terror  of  it  was 
flaming  still  in  sight.  "Some  years,"  she  said. 
"Years  an'  years." 


170  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"Been  there  all  winter?" 

"Yes." 

"Had  any  company?  Been  away  any- 
where?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Busy  all  day?" 

"'Most  all." 

"What  at?" 

"Doin'  up  the  work.     Sewin'." 

The  doctor  nodded.  Then  he  listened  at 
her  heart  and  her  lungs,  and  nodded  again. 
"There  's  nothing  the  matter  with  you,"  he 
said,  "  except  you  're  tired  out.  Don't  you  get 
up  out  of  that  bed  till  I  tell  you  to." 

He  went  downstairs,  Mrs.  Pritchard  follow- 
ing. Cynthia  smiled  bitterly  to  herself,  and 
thought  they  would  both  find  out  some  day. 
He  was  either  a  very  poor  doctor,  or  else  he  was 
deceiving  her  for  a  childish  good.  So  she  did 
get  out  of  bed,  and  dropped  on  the  floor  in  a 
little  miserable  heap;  and  there  Frances  found 
her,  shaking  and  crying  pitifully. 

"  I  've  got  spinal  trouble,  too,"  sobbed  Cyn- 
thia, "  besides  my  heart.  I  dunno'  what  under 
the  heavens  you  '11  do  with  me.  I  've  got  to  be 
a  burden  on  somebody,  now,  as  long  as  I  live. 
Oh,  I  wisht  I  'd  died  on  the  way  down!" 

"O  you  dear  creatur'!"  cried  Frances,  and 
she  lifted  her  into  bed,  and  then  sat  there  mo- 


A  SEA  CHANGE  171 

thering  her.  Cynthia  clung  passionately  to  those 
enfolding  arms ;  she  cried  harsh  sobs  which  gave 
her  bitter  solace.  Exhaustion  came,  and  then 
she  began  to  wonder  a  little  over  this  human 
shelter  where  she  felt  so  safe.  Nobody  had  put 
warmly  affectionate  arms  about  her  for  a  long 
time.  Even  her  mother  had  not  been  used  to 
wasteful  caresses.  They  came  of  a  stock  which 
lived  and  died  quite  properly.  But  this  was  all 
she  could  say:  "Should  you  jest  as  soon  keep 
hold  o'  me  a  minute  more.^" 

"Dear  creatur'!"  said  Frances  again,  and 
then  she  shook  her  head  in  a  whimsical  way, 
knowing  how  "shaller"  she  might  seem  in  rea- 
soning eyes.  She  too  had  a  bed  rock  of  reserve, 
a  rock  which  had  been  smitten  long  ago. 

"I  dunno'  but  I  act  kind  o'  silly,"  she  said, 
"a  woman  o'  my  age;  but  I  've  got  so  used  to 
babyin'  little  Cynthy  —  we  both  did,  cap'n  an' 
me  —  that  I  can't  feel  as  if  I  was  doin'  enough 
unless  I  ketch  hold  o'  people  somehow." 

"Cynthy  wa'n't  well,  was  she.^"  ventured 
the  other  Cynthia. 

"  She  wa'n't  quite  right,  dear,"  said  Frances 
tenderly.  "There!  I'll  tell  ye  all  about  it 
some  time.  Now  you  take  these  drops.  Doc- 
tor left  'em  for  ye." 

All  that  day  Cynthia  slept,  and  was  quite  con- 
tent; for  in  her  brief  wakings  she  always  saw 


172  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

Frances,  and  remembered  that  the  doctor  said 
she  was  not  to  move.  So  there  was  no  need  of 
mentioning  the  boots,  and  making  her  heart 
beat  again ;  because  nothing  could  be  done  about 
them  unless  she  were  on  her  feet  and  able  to  talk 
to  lawyers.  And  she  should  never  be  on  her 
feet  again.  That  night  she  looked  up  pitifully 
while  Frances  smoothed  her  down  for  the  last 
time,  and  whispered: 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  pass  away  before 
mornm  ? 

"  O  you  lamb  of  love ! "  murmured  Frances,  in 
the  drone  of  a  splendid  bee  over  honey.  "  You 
ain't  goin'  to  pass  away  at  all,  not  from  anything 
you  've  got  now.     Doctor  says  so." 

"He  thinks  I  'm  spleeny;  but  I  ain't,"  said 
Cynthia,  with  acquiescent  gravity.  "  I  'm  goin', 
an'  I  'm  willin'  to  go;  but  he  ain't  no  kind  of  a 
doctor,  or  he  'd  be  the  first  to  see  it." 

"  Want  I  should  stay  right  here  in  this  room  ?  " 

Cynthia  shook  her  head.  Nevertheless  she 
knew,  all  through  that  strange  and  dreamless 
night,  that  Frances  was  at  hand. 

For  a  week  or  more  Cynthia  lay  between 
sleeping  and  waking,  expectant  of  the  end,  and 
only  mildly  curious  about  the  manner  of  its  com- 
ing. When  her  heart  beat  hard,  she  felt  a  tem- 
porary fright  because  those  wings  of  terror  shook 
her  so.     The  doctor  came,  and  seeing,  after  the 


A  SEA  CHANGE  173 

first  time,  how  she  shrank  from  him,  would  not 
have  her  told.  Sometimes  he  stood  behind  the 
headboard,  and  looked  down  upon  her.  Often 
he  placed  a  gentle  hand  upon  her  wrist;  and 
always  he  had  long  talks  with  Frances,  on  his 
way  out,  and  gave  her  counsel. 

The  Pritchards  lived  in  a  yellow,  gambrel- 
roofed  house  on  the  great  highway  between  Pen- 
rith and  Brighton  Sands.  Penrith  used  to  be  a 
whaling  port,  and  lies  now  in  deserted  honor, 
hands  folded  upon  the  majestic  past.  At  Brigh- 
ton Sands,  visitors  fill  the  air  with  laughter  two 
months  in  the  year,  and  go  driving  along  the 
county  road  to  explore  dull  Penrith,  so  quaint, 
so  picturesque,  and  yet  so  to  be  eschewed  in 
favor  of  boxlike  cottages  and  bare  hotels.  Pen- 
rith knows  but  two  centres  of  action,  itself  and 
the  Banks ;  and  who  would  spend  a  browsing  day 
there,  making  the  tour  of  crooked  streets,  may 
chance  to  learn  more  than  he  likes  to  remember 
of  widows  keeping  lookout  still,  and  fishermen's 
children  orphaned  by  the  snatching  sea.  But 
the  wide  white  highway  to  the  Sands  lies  in  the 
light  of  a  later  founding,  and  holds  a  brighter 
prospect  than  that  upon  the  harbor  and  the 
outer  blue.  It  has  but  one  row  of  houses,  facing 
toward  the  east ;  for  on  the  other  side  runs  by  the 
river  to  its  outlet  at  the  Sands.  The  river  has  its 
tide,  and  it  is  a  chance  whether  you  would  find  it 


174  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

more  companionable  lapping  the  stone  sea  wall 
and  pricked  by  tops  of  sedge,  or  withdrawn, 
leaving  the  sedges  plentiful,  green  in  summer, 
and,  through  the  autumn,  chestnut  brown.  All 
the  houses  are  held  by  seafaring  folk  devoted 
now  to  'longshore  industry,  clamming,  eeling, 
and  setting  lobster  pots ;  so  when  the  tide  serves, 
you  see  giants  in  sou'wester  and  oilskin,  pushing 
out  their  boats,  hoisting  an  ancient  sail  mellowed 
by  weather,  and  gliding  away  into  the  east.  Or 
they  come  creeping  home  again,  and  a  fishy  odor 
rises  pleasantly.  That  same  sea  smell  troubled 
Cynthia,  used  to  the  clear  mountain  air. 

"  Seems  to  me  I  smell  suthin',"  she  remarked 
doubtfully,  in  her  first  moment  of  sane  waking. 
"'T  ain't  nothin'  b'ilin'  over,  is  it?" 

Mrs.  Pritchard  laughed  till  the  tears  came. 

"  It 's  all  that  gurry  over  by  the  clamhouses," 
she  said,  wiping  her  eyes.  "I  admire  to  smell 
it,  but  I  'm  so  used  to  it  't  ain't  once  in  a  dog's 
age  I  can.  If  ever  I  git  a  real  good  whiff,  I  feel 
as  if  I  was  made."  Then  she  brought  in  a  cup 
of  clam  broth,  and  Cynthia,  privately  thinking 
it  "real  poor  stuff,"  sacrificed  to  hospitality  and 
drank. 

She  lay  there  that  afternoon  high  on  her  pil- 
lows, and  surveyed  the  little  room  with  some  new 
interest. 

"  Frances,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  I  don't  know 


A  SEA  CHANGE  175 

no  more  'n  the  dead  what 's  outside  the  house ;  I 
wisht  I  could  jest  glimpse  out  o'  that  winder." 

"Cap'n!"  called  Mrs.  Pritchard,  at  the  door, 
"cap'n,  you  come  up  here!" 

"O  land!"  breathed  Cynthia,  for  in  all  these 
days  she  had  not  seen  him,  and  it  remained  evi- 
dent to  her  that,  when  they  met,  she  must  tell 
him  things.  He  must  be  made  to  realize  that 
although  she  had  spinal  trouble  and  heart  dis- 
ease, she  did  not  mean  to  stay  and  be  a  burden 
on  him.  What  she  could  do  was  not  yet  appar- 
ent; but  there  must  be  ways.  So  when  a  step 
came  stealing  up  the  stairs,  she  lay  with  brighter 
cheeks  and  waited  for  him,  feverishly.  The  cap- 
tain came  in  like  a  conciliatory  cat.  He  was 
very  big,  and  tall  enough  to  stoop  under  the 
slanting  roof.  He  had  a  good  deal  of  yellow- 
gray  beard  and  a  proud  aquiline  nose;  his  eyes 
were  very  calm  and  steady,  in  the  way  of  eyes 
used  to  looking  on  blue  water.  Instead  of 
speaking  to  Cynthia,  he  gave  her  a  queer  little 
oblique  nod,  and  then  turned  to  his  wife  for 
orders. 

"I  want  to  kind  o'  pull  this  bed  'round,"  said 
Frances,  "so  't  she  can  look  out  a  spell." 

The  cap'n  laid  hold.  He  spoke  but  once,  and 
then  Cynthia  marveled  at  his  voice,  soft  and  Un- 
gering  like  an  unusual  kind  of  purr. 

'*  Aleetle  mite  more  to  the  no'theast,"  he  coun- 


176  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

seled,  pulling  as  Frances  pushed.  And  the  bed 
being  turned,  he  disappeared  with  the  same  con- 
sidered silence,  as  if  it  were  a  velvet  habit  worn 
to  meet  the  world. 

The  window  framed  an  exquisite  picture,  and 
beguiled  the  eye  into  far-reaching  glimpses  more 
bewildering  still.  There  was  the  river;  Cynthia 
thought  it  was  the  sea.  Beyond  ran  a  shadowy 
line  of  land,  with  one  white  tower,  and  over 
the  curdling  water  between,  little  sailboats  were 
winging,  and  dories  went  back  and  forth  un- 
hurried. 

"My,  ain't  it  complete!"  she  breathed. 
"Well,  I  don't  wonder  folks  carry  on  so  over 
the  beach." 

"  We  think  it 's  pretty  nice,"  said  Mrs.  Pritch- 
ard  sedately,  yet  with  pride.  "  There  's  Fastnet 
Island,  an'  that 's  the  light  —  revolvin'.  I 
should  n't  wonder  if  you  'd  kind  o'  like  to  lay  an' 
watch  it  a  spell  arter  dark.  Cynthy  used  to; 
sometimes  I  'd  hold  her  by  the  winder  till  she 
dropped  off  to  sleep."  An  old  sadness  tinged 
her  voice,  or,  perhaps,  not  so  much  sadness  as 
the  sense  of  serious  things. 

Cynthia  turned  impulsively  from  her  lookout. 

"  Yes,  dear,  yes,"  said  Frances.  "  I  've  meant 
to  tell  you  about  her  for  quite  a  spell.  It 's  real 
providential  for  me  you  took  it  into  your  head  to 
come  down  here,  for  I  dunno'  how  I  could  ha' 


A  SEA  CHANGE  177 

wrote  it,  an'  mebbe  cap'n  an'  me  never  'd  ha' 
got  started  for  such  a  jaunt.  Well,  you  see,  dear, 
Cynthy  wa'n't  quite  like  other  child 'en  from  the 
minute  she  was  born.  She  did  have  suthin'  the 
matter  with  her  back,  an'  we  thought  that  was 
all;  but  doctor,  he  knew  better.  One  day  he 
told  me.  '  She  ain't  goin'  to  be  like  other  chil- 
d'en,  Mis'  Pritchard,'  says  he.  '  She  don't  take 
notice.     I  don't  presume  she  ever  will.'  " 

Cynthia  nodded.  She  kept  her  eyes  on  the 
river  now,  and  either  that  outer  paradise  or  the 
sorrow  of  life  began  to  invade  her  eyes,  and  urge 
forth  willing  tears. 

"She  was  a  handsome  little  creatur',"  said 
Frances  proudly.  "  Hair  like  corn  silk,  an'  skin 
as  white  an'  pink  as  ever  you  see.  She  favored 
cap'n's  family.  The  Pritchards  are  all  light. 
Sometimes  it  did  n't  seem  as  if  we  'd  be  able  to 
bring  her  up,  she  used  to  get  so  hurt.  'T  wa'n't 
so  much  that  she  was  ailin',  but  she  seemed  too 
kind  o'  delicate  to  stan'  this  kind  of  a  world. 
Noises  put  her  out,  an'  a  cross  look  'd  make  her 
cry.  Cap'n  an'  I  'd  been  through  a  good  deal 
'fore  we  met  one  another,  married  late  in  life,  so. 
He  'd  had  a  tempestuous  kind  of  a  time,  an'  you 
know  I  got  'most  beat  out  with  all  the  sickness 
we  went  through,  'fore  the  home  was  broke  up. 
We  set  terribly  by  one  another,  but  we  had  our 
failin's,  an'  sometimes  I  'd  flare  out  an'  he  'd 


178  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

swear.  When  Cynthy  come,  that  tried  her  'most 
to  death — I  dunno'  why,  when  she  did  n't  sense 
it  —  an'  we  sort  o'  quieted  down,  an'  let  every- 
thing go  but  her.  I  could  n't  begin  to  tell  you 
the  beautiful  time  we  had  with  that  child.  I 
can't  explain  how  it  was,  but  she  more  'n  filled 
up  our  lives,  an'  yet  we  prized  one  another  till  it 
seemed  as  if  't  was  Beulah  Land,  an'  all  the  pro- 
mises come  true.  We  had  n't  a  thing  to  ask  for, 
an'  as  soon  as  ever  a  shadder  passed  over  her  face, 
we  'd  seek  about  for  suthin'  to  drive  it  away; 
an'  cap'n's  voice  would  fall  lower  'n'  lower 
an'  he  'd  smile  all  by  himself  to  git  into  the 
habit  on  't.  We  took  up  singin'  a  little.  That 
pleased  her,  an'  we  conjured  up  all  the  old  tunes 
we  knew.  We  ain't  gi'n  that  up,  either,  an' 
we  ain't  a-goin'  to.  We  've  laid  it  aside  till  you 
git  your  bearin's,  but  as  soon  as  ever  you  can 
stan'  it,  we  '11  take  our  harps  down  off  the  wilier, 
an'  glad  enough  to  do  it,  too.  Perhaps  you  '11 
jine  in.     You  used  to  sing  the  air." 

Cynthia  nodded  again.  The  story  gripped 
her  heart ;  listening  to  it,  she  forgot  her  own  past 
martyrdom. 

Mrs.  Pritchard  went  on,  passing  a  hand  over 
her  eyes  when  a  thought  touched  her  too 
keenly. 

"She  was  terrible  cunnin',  too,  about  the 
things  she  liked.     There  's  one  pinky  kind  of  a 


A  SEA  CHANGE  179 

shade  in  the  water  out  there, —  the  west  sort  o' 
throws  it  over  when  there  's  a  great  sunset, — 
an'  whenever  she  set  eyes  on  that,  she  'd  clap  her 
hands  an'  laugh.  An'  she  al'ays  did  see  it  when 
cap'n  was  to  home,  for  he  'd  come  in  an'  call: 
'  Quick,'  he  'd  say,  '  there  's  Cynthy's  red ! ' 
That 's  the  reason,  too,  that  cap'n  give  up  goin' 
to  the  Banks.  We  talked  it  over  pretty  serious, 
him  an'  me,  an'  we  concluded  it  wa'n't  no  kind 
of  a  resk  for  a  man  to  take  with  a  little  creatur' 
like  that  missin'  him  if  he  's  out  o'  the  house  an 
hour  over  time.  'Besides,'  says  cap'n, ' I  should 
n't  see  nothin'  but  them  eyes  through  the  fog. 
It  kind  of  undoes  a  man  to  be  so  called  upon.' 
Well,  so  't  went  on,  an'  we  were  proper  well  con- 
tented. The  only  thing  that  unstiddied  us  a 
little  was  suthin'  doctor  wanted  we  should  do.'* 

"Do  you  think  he's  much  of  a  doctor?" 
interrupted  Cynthia  impulsively. 

Mrs.  Pritchard  smiled. 

"We  think  he  is,"  she  said  quietly.  "He  's 
brought  us  through  consid'able,  fust  an'  last. 
Well,  he  said  there  were  schools  where  them 
kind  o'  child'en  could  be  helped,  an'  mebbe 
we  'd  find  it  our  duty  to  send  Cynthy  off.  It 
sort  o'  loomed  up  before  us  like  a  cloud  in  the 
west,  but  it  never  had  to  be.  Two  year  ago, 
doctor  says,  '  I  guess  you  need  n't  worry  about 
that  no  more.     She  ain't  long  for  this  life.'    An' 


180  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

come  a  year  last  December,  she  passed  away. 
...  I  wish  you  could  ha'  seen  her  in  her  little 
bed.  Never  was  anything  like  it  on  this  earth. 
Cap'n  could  n't  keep  out  o'  the  room.  He  'd 
set  an'  watch  her  jest  like  a  waitin'  dog." 

The  quick  tears  sprang  to  Cynthia's  eyes,  but 
Frances,  seeing  them,  smiled. 

"Now  you  may  know,"  she  said,  rousing  her- 
self, "  how  't  is  you  're  a  kind  of  a  godsend  to  us. 
I  could  n't  wish  sickness  to  nobody,  especially 
my  own  sister;  but  I  can't  tell  ye  how  it  warms 
me  up  to  have  suthin'  helpless  to  do  for.  An' 
cap'n!  first  minute  I  told  him  you  'd  gi'n  out, 
he  says,  '  Better  keep  pretty  quiet,  had  n't  I  ? ' 
'Yes,'  says  I.  I  see  it  pleased  him;  seemed  like 
old  times." 

Then  they  held  a  long  silence,  Cynthia  watch- 
ing the  changing  wonder  of  the  water,  but 
thinking  of  other  things. 

.  "  I  wrote  to  Timothy  last  week,"  said  Frances 
suddenly. 

It  seemed  to  Cynthia  as  if  an  inky  cloud  de- 
scended with  the  name.  All  her  troubles  re- 
turned to  her,  and  she  wondered  if  this  might 
be  the  time  to  tell  why  she  had  come. 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  hadn't!"  she  moaned. 
"Did  you  say  anything  about  my  bein'  sick?" 

"  No ;  I  said  you  seemed  tol'able  tired  with  the 
journey,  an'  so  I  wrote  for  ye." 


A  SEA  CHANGE  181 

Cynthia  had  lost  all  the  pretty  color,  born  in 
her  face  only  that  afternoon.  She  spoke  in 
gasps : 

"  Frances,  if  I  'd  got  suthin'  to  tell  you,  should 
you  think  I  'd  ought  to  do  it  now  ? " 

"  I  should  n't  open  my  head  about  anything 
till  I  was  up  an'  round,  an'  strong  enough  to  do 
a  week's  washin'.  Now  you  jest  observe  that 
little  Pemberton  imp,  rowin'  over  to  the  bar. 
Them  Pembertons  were  born  web-footed."  So 
they  sat  and  watched  the  adventurer  until  Cyn- 
thia was  at  ease  again  under  the  spell  of  common 
things. 

But  when  Frances  rose  to  go  down  and  get 
supper,  she  stood  smoothing  her  apron  a  mo- 
ment before  she  said: 

"I'd  be  happy  to  have  Timothy  make  us  a 
visit,  too.  We  both  should ;  cap'n  an'  I  've  often 
spoke  on  't.  He  's  had  a  hard  life  up  there, 
tryin'  to  wring  a  livin'  out  o'  the  rocks.  Cap'n 
says  't  is  an  unthankful  land ;  not  like  rowin'  out 
overnight  an'  comin'  in  with  your  boat  full  to 
the  gunnel." 

"  It 's  real  green  up  there,"  responded  Cyn- 
thia quickly.    "  Our  land  's  richer  'n  some." 

"  Timothy  was  a  likely  young  feller  when  you 
was  married.  I  s'pose  he  's  changed,  like  the 
rest  of  us." 

"Yes,  I  guess  he  's  some  changed."     Cynthia 


182  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

closed  her  eyes,  not  so  much  in  weariness  as  to 
shut  her  thoughts  away. 

The  bed  was  never  turned  again,  for  she  was 
too  fascinated  by  her  window  to  forego  an  in- 
stant of  it.  There  she  lay,  hour  by  hour,  and 
watched  the  drama  played  by  moving  water: 
the  ripples  under  a  breeze,  the  miracle  of  the 
tide,  with  flooded  or  waving  sedge,  the  sentient 
boats,  the  gulls.  Then  at  dusk  there  was  the 
light,  gone  and  resurrected  in  a  breath.  As 
soon  as  she  got  used  to  cap'n,  which  really  was 
the  moment  when  he  moved  the  bed,  she  hun- 
gered for  him,  childishly ;  so  every  night  he  came 
up  and  sat  on  the  stairs,  because  the  room  was 
small,  and  told  stories  or  sang  tunes.  Frances 
helped  him  at  both,  and  the  wan  little  onlooker 
could  see  that  they  had  much  ado  to  show,  in 
quiet  ways,  how  much  they  loved  each  other. 
*'I  dunno'  's  I  've  got  a  thing  to  wish  for,  now 
little  Cynthy  's  well  on  't,"  said  the  tranquil 
wife,  "  on'y,  when  our  time  comes,  to  have  cap'n 
go  fust.  It 's  a  terrible  thing  to  think  of  a  man 
left  all  alone." 

The  weeks  went  on,  and  Cynthia,  lying  there 
in  bed,  grew  plump  and  pretty.  Her  hair  took 
on  a  gloss  from  many  brushings,  and  with  that 
mantling  redness  of  the  cheek,  she  looked  the 
younger  sister  of  her  old  sad  self.  Yet  still  care 
sat  upon  her  breast,  a  double  weight.     There 


A  SEA  CHANGE  183 

was  the  haunting  spectre  of  her  divorce ;  but  how 
could  she  get  it  now,  a  helpless  invalid  ?  What 
was  to  be  done  with  a  woman  felled  by  spinal 
trouble  ?  So  she  lay  very  still  and  tried  to  get 
well,  not  because  life  looked  in  the  least  desir- 
able, but  that  she  might  rise  up  and  take  herself 
away  from  these  kind  souls. 

One  day  in  July,  Frances  came  up  the  stairs 
laughing.  Her  sides  shook,  her  face  was  crim- 
son; it  seemed  to  be  from  no  fictitious  mirth. 

" I  'm  possessed  to  do  it! "  she  cried  recklessly. 
"You  know  doctor  said  you  was  to  lay  abed  as 
long  as  ever  you  could  ?  Well,  cap'n  's  up  town, 
an'  doctor  's  rode  by  to  Brighton,  an'  I  'm  goin' 
to  see  if  I  can't  git  you  downstairs  to  see  my  jell. 
It 's  all  set  out  on  the  table,  an'  a  beautiful  sight, 
if  I  do  say  it." 

Cynthia  stared  at  her,  aghast.  "Why,  you 
could  n't  no  more  git  me  down  there !  You  'd 
break  your  back,  an'  then  where  'd  you  be  .^ " 

Frances  seemed  simply  to  put  out  her  great 
arms,  and  Cynthia  touched  the  floor. 

"O  my  soul  an'  body!"  she  cried,  "you'll 
kill  me!  you'll  kill  yourself!     O  my  soul!" 

Frances,  puffing  tempestuously,  lifted  her  and 
bore  her  to  the  stairs.  Cynthia  thought  she  was 
carried  all  the  way  down,  but  she  remembered 
afterwards  the  touch  of  the  carpet  on  her  feet. 
In  some  fashion  or  other,  they  accomplished  the 


184  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

passage  from  sitting-room  to  kitchen,  and  there 
Frances  endowed  her  with  stockings  and  a 
wrapper  miraculously  ready.  Cynthia  stood  be- 
wildered, and  Mrs.  Pritchard  left  her  standing; 
as  for  her,  she  seemed  to  have  no  eyes  but  for  the 
table,  red  with  jelly  tumblers. 

"Ain't  that  a  handsome  color .^"  she  asked 
hurriedly.  **  Seems  if  it  jelled  'most  as  quick  as 
it  touched  the  glass.  I  thought  that  was  as 
pretty  a  sight  as  ever  I  see.  O  Cynthy !  you  jest 
peek  in  here.  I  've  got  the  parlor  cupboard  all 
fixed  to  set  it  in,  scalloped  papers  an'  all.  Yes, 
I  don't  wonder  you  observe  the  what-not. 
That 's  some  coral  cap'n's  father  brought  home, 
from  'the  strand,'  he  used  to  say.  I  guess 
't  would  tell  tales  if  it  could  only  speak."  Mrs. 
Pritchard  had  always  talked  with  great  sedate- 
ness;  now  she  chattered  like  a  showman,  bound 
to  please.  Cynthia  stood  by,  wondering.  "I 
declare,"  said  Frances,  at  last,  "if  it  ain't  five 
o'clock!  Cap'n  won't  be  back  'fore  dusk. 
What  if  you  an'  me  should  have  an  early  bite, 
right  off  now  ?  " 

Cynthia,  pushed  out  of  the  nest,  felt  a  little 
hurt  resistance  rising  in  her.  Yet  pride  sus- 
tained her,  and  she  sat  stiffly  by,  while  Frances 
talked.  It  was  more  or  less  pleasant  to  watch 
the  machinery  of  life  going  on  once  more,  if  only 
one  were  strong  enough  to  bear  it ;  but,  she  told 


A  SEA  CHANGE  185 

herself,  she  was  not  strong.  When  the  twiUght 
came,  she  had  grown  tired,  and,  still  a  little  sore 
within  her  mind,  she  crept  upstairs  alone,  won- 
dering and  afraid  to  wonder. 

Next  morning,  Mrs.  Pritchard's  voice  came 
cheerfully  from  below: 

*'  Cynthy,  don't  you  be  put  out  if  I  ain't  round 
quite  so  early  this  mornin'.  I  've  got  a  kind  of 
a  stitch  in  my  side,  an'  breakfast  '11  be  later  'n 
common." 

"O  my  soul!"  responded  Cynthia.  On  the 
instant  she  was  at  the  closet,  searching  for  her 
clothes.  "Don't  you  come  up  here  with  that 
heavy  waiter.  It 's  tendin'  on  me  that 's  wore 
you  out.  I  'd  ought  to  be  trounced."  She 
dressed  herself  with  eager  fingers,  and  felt  her 
way  downstairs.  Breakfast  was  nearly  ready, 
and  though  Frances  complained  of  her  side,  she 
seemed  to  bear  it  beautifully.  In  a  couple  of 
hours  the  stitch  was  knitted  up  again. 

But  Cynthia  did  not  go  back  to  bed,  and  no- 
body seemed  to  wonder.  When  cap'n  came,  he 
only  told  her,  in  the  softest  possible  voice,  about 
the  good  haul  he  had ;  and  the  doctor,  stopping 
at  the  gate  on  his  way  home,  called  to  her  that 
he  had  something  for  her :  bayberry  and  green 
beach  plums.  She  'd  better  can  up  some  of  the 
plums,  when  they  were  ripe,  to  take  home,  and 
show  the  mountain  what 's  what. 


186  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

One  August  day  Cynthia,  in  a  calico  gown  and 
sunbonnet,  her  arms  bare  to  the  elbow,  was  con- 
sidering the  hollyhocks  in  the  front  yard.  She 
thought  they  needed  more  foot  room ;  so  she  got 
the  spade  and  began  an  onslaught  on  the  border- 
ing turf.  As  she  set  her  foot  upon  the  spade,  life 
rioted  within  her,  and  she  sang,  in  breathless 
jerks : 

"  There  was  a  youth, 
And  a  well-beloved  youth  "  — 

Hope  and  joy  were  stirring  as  the  sap  mantles 
upward  in  the  spring,  and  for  as  plain  a  reason. 
She  was  well  now,  and  the  earth  was  hers  again. 
If  battles  were  to  be  fought,  she  could  fight  them. 
It  need  not  be  long  before  she  left  this  refuge, 
and  went  out  to  earn  her  living  in  the  world. 

A  man  was  halting  at  the  open  gate.  He 
looked  unfamiliar  and  yet,  at  sight  of  him,  her 
flesh  awoke  under  a  strange  responsive  thrill. 
Her  eyes  fell  upon  his  boots,  furrowed  with  dust, 
and  she  thought  of  Timothy's.  A  little  laugh 
broke  from  her  at  the  shadow  of  those  former 
fears;  she  felt  a  happy  scorn  of  them. 

"  Is  there  anybody  'round  here  by  the  name  of 
Pritchard  ?  "  asked  the  man ;  and  Cynthia,  throw- 
ing down  her  spade  and  tossing  away  her  sun- 
bonnet,  ran  out  and  hung  upon  him.  Frances, 
at  the  window,  saw  the  sight  and  turned  away, 
with  an  aching  throat.     Cynthia  seemed  to  her 


A  SEA  CHANGE  187 

now  not  so  much  her  sister,  as  a  child,  miracu- 
lously bestowed;  but  she  knew  which  path  was 
best.  Timothy  put  his  arms  about  the  clinging 
figure,  knowing  it  to  be  his,  and  yet  unaware  of 
ever  having  owned  anything  so  precious.  She 
was  like  the  angel  of  her  youth ;  he  was  afraid 
of  her,  she  looked  so  pretty.  She  rubbed  her 
face  against  his  coat. 

"  Oh,  how  good  it  is ! "  she  was  sobbing  wildly. 
"You  smell  jest  like  home.  Oh,  can't  you  kiss 
me?" 

Timothy  found  he  could,  and  liked  the  taste 
exceedingly. 

"You've  had  your  hair  cut,"  laughed  Cyn- 
thia, brushing  her  eyes  with  the  back  of  a  gritty 
hand.  "An'  your  beard's  trimmed.  That's 
why  I  did  n't  know  you." 

Timothy  looked  self-conscious.  Yet  he  held 
himself  with  some  just  pride. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  thought  I'd  have  'em 
thinned  out  a  little,  if  I  was  goin'  down  among 
the  quality." 

Later  that  day,  when  the  Pritchards  were  up- 
stairs hunting  for  an  old  suit  for  Timothy  to 
wear  clamming,  Cynthia  came  and  perched  upon 
his  knee.  She  had  seen  her  sister  in  that  posi- 
tion relative  to  the  cap'n,  and  found,  with  great 
surprise,  that  Timothy  seemed  to  adapt  himself 
to  it  quite  cleverly. 


188  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"  Is  the  mountain  all  purple  ?  "  she  asked,  from 
the  keenness  of  her  new  home  hunger,"  an'  mists 
runnin'  over  the  side  ?  Oh,  seems  if  I  could  n't 
wait  to  see  it!    I  dunno'  how  I  've  lived  till  now." 

"We  could  go  straight  back  to-morrer,"  said 
Timothy,  regarding  her  with  his  good  brown 
eyes.  She  could  not  understand  them.  They 
were  his  eyes,  indeed,  yet  they  had  never  been  so 
soft  and  shining.     She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  you've  got  to  stay  them  two  weeks. 
I  've  had  my  change;  I  'm  goin'  to  see  to  't  you 
have  yours.  An'  company !  I  want  Frances  an' 
the  cap'n  should  come  up  an'  make  us  a  nice 
long  visit,  an'  find  out  we  've  got  suthin'  to 
show  off  on,  too." 

"Well,"  said  Timothy  slowly,  "I  told  the 
Taylors  I  might  come  back  right  off,  or  it  migjit 
be  a  fortnight.  They  're  nice  help  to  leave  as 
ever  you  see.  I  told  her  to  clean  up  the  house 
as  you  'd  like  to  have  it,  in  case  you  went  up 
along  with  me.  Seemed  one  time  as  if  you  never 
meant  to  come  home.  Say,  Cynthy,  that  wa'n't 
so  when  you  went  away,  was  it  ?  " 

Cynthia  trembled  a  little.  She  glanced  at  his 
betraying  eyes,  and  they  were  wet.  He  looked 
like  an  unreasoning  creature  which  has  suffered 
pain,  and  gained  a  lifetime  at  a  bound. 

"I  meant  to  stay  till  I  was  good  an'  strong," 
she  said  firmly;  and  he  believed  her. 


A  SEA  CHANGE  189 

Announcing  garments  came  flying  down  the 
stairs,  and  steps  would  follow.  Cynthia,  rising, 
paused  for  one  hasty  question: 

"Timothy,  what  'd  you  do  with  that  little  cup 
you  broke,  the  mornin'  I  went  away  ? " 

He  opened  his  mouth  wide,  in  the  horror  of 
the  careless  steward. 

"  Hove  it  under  the  barn,"  he  owned  guiltily. 
"Had  I  ought  to  ha'  kep'  it?" 

Cynthia  laughed,  with  the  tears  coming.  "  No, 
no!"  she  cried.  "I  could  n't  ever  bear  to  see  it 
ag'in.     There  they  are  —  dear!" 


THE  TREE  OF  A  THOUSAND  LEAVES 


THE  TREE  OF  A  THOUSAND  LEAVES 

"You  give  me  that  serpentine  braid,"  said  Aunt 
Ellen  Temple  to  her  niece,  Myra.  "My!  ain't 
there  a  lot  of  it !  You  must  ha'  be'n  crochetin' 
nigh  about  all  winter.  It 's  real  tight  an'  firm, 
too." 

They  were  sitting  in  the  west  chamber,  each 
at  a  window,  rocking  and  sewing  as  they  talked. 
Myra  was  a  thin,  straight  girl,  with  reproving 
eyes  and  an  axiomatic  mouth.  She  was  ex- 
tremely pretty,  in  an  irreproachable  way.  Her 
complexion  was  faultless ;  the  pink  of  her  cheeks 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  tinted  there  by  some 
designer  of  beauty  for  the  world's  great  fashion- 
plate.  All  her  features  would  pass  muster:  yet 
they  left  the  onlooker  cold.  Aunt  Ellen,  who 
had  come  on  from  the  West  to  mother  the  girl 
in  her  wedding  preparations,  took  the  liberty  of 
wondering  why  the  young  minister  should  have 
been  drawn  to  Myra.  Aunt  Ellen,  in  her  secret 
mind,  decided  that  she  would  sooner  wed  with 
the  poker.  She  herself  was  of  another  stamp 
even  from  her  dead  sister,  Myra's  mother,  whom 
Myra  so  much  resembled.  She  was  a  generous 
type  of  woman,  with  brown  eyes  and  a  mobile 


194  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

mouth.  Though  she  was  long  over  forty,  she 
knew  her  small  beauties,  and  smiled  at  them  in 
the  glass.  Her  elbows  had  dimples  in  them; 
and  when  her  sleeves  were  stripped  up  for  bread- 
making,  the  casual  eye  was  welcome  to  linger  on 
those  decorative  indentations.  Myra's  mother 
had  used  to  say  that  Ellen  was  bewitched  over 
men  folks.  That  was  not  true.  Ellen  knew 
what  bewitched  them,  and  she  liked  to  answer 
in  key. 

"I  was  terrible  pleased  when  I  got  your  let- 
ter," she  said  incidentally,  as  she  set  her  quick, 
careful  stitches.  She  always  used  a  short  thread, 
and  drew  it  back  and  forth  with  a  capable 
speed.  "  I  'd  be'n  sort  o'  makin'  up  my  mind 
to  come  on  East,  an'  the  minute  you  wrote 
*weddin','  I  says  to  myself,  'Now  's  my  time.'" 

"  I  knew  you  had  n't  any  ties  to  prevent  you," 
said  Myra,  with  the  air  of  keeping  funeral 
state  over  cold  memories,  "  since  Uncle  Hiram 
died." 

Aunt  Ellen  laughed,  a  rich  little  gurgle. 

"  Law,  yes,  I  have,"  she  said.  "  I  've  got  ties 
everywhere  I  've  ever  be'n.  I  know  every  man, 
woman,  and  child  in  town  out  there,  an'  when 
I  come  away  they  were  all  grabbin'  at  my  pet- 
ticoats an'  holdin'  me  back.  Ties!  I  guess 
I  have.  But  I  thought  there  would  n't  be  no 
harm  in  makin'  a  few  new  ones." 


TREE  OF  A  THOUSAND  LEAVES    195 

Myra  was  frowning  over  her  work. 

"I  had  a  kind  of  a  plan,"  she  said.  "I 
thought  may  be  you  'd  fall  in  with  it.  I  don't 
know  as  you  've  noticed  it  —  but  father  's  a 
great  trial  to  us. "  She  looked  up  challengingly, 
and  her  blue  eyes  were  honest,  though  cold. 

Aunt  Ellen  did  not  trouble  herself  to  meet 
them.  She  had  "sized  up"  her  niece  in  child- 
hood, and  that  record  was  lasting  very  well. 

"What 's  the  matter  of  him.^"  she  inquired 
easily. 

Myra  launched  into  a  confidence  likely,  she 
fancied,  to  be  understood. 

"  Father  's  terrible  queer.  He  always  was, 
but  he  's  queerer  'n  ever.  He  's  been  a  dread- 
ful trial  all  winter.  Elbert  sees  it.  He  recog- 
nized it,  he  said,  when  he  asked  me  to  marry 
him.  He  recognized  the  fact  that  father  would 
be  a  great  responsibility  to  us."  Her  voice  had 
taken  on  the  tone  of  her  lover's  speech.  It  had 
a  pulpit  flavor,  adapted  to  the  household. 

Aunt  Ellen  rocked  and  sewed. 

"Ain't  your  father  well  in  health  .^"  she  asked 
casually.     "Seems  so  to  me." 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes ! "  returned  Myra,  with  a  neutral 
emphasis  extreme  in  her;  it  made  her  top-note  of 
passion.  "Father's  young  for  his  age.  It's 
his  mind.  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  the  whole :  all 
last  winter  from  Thanksgiving  on,  he  spent  the 


196  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

greater  part  of  the  day  doing  sums.  He  'd  make 
'em  up  out  of  his  head,  and  then  he  'd  try  to 
prove  'em." 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Ellen,  "I  don't  see  's  that 
troubled  anybody." 

"Why,  he  was  set  on  it!"  cried  Myra.  "That 
cold  storm,  he  stayed  out  in  the  shed  and  ci- 
phered, on  the  boards  with  a  piece  o'  chalk.  And 
Elbert  lent  him  books,  and  he  would  n't  read 
'em.  And  he  'd  pray  with  him,  and  father  'd  sit 
and  keep  his  pencil  down  hard  on  the  place 
where  he  was  in  his  figuring,  and  when  Elbert 
stopped,  he  'd  go  right  on  adding  up." 

Aunt  Ellen  laid  down  her  work.  She  spoke 
slowly,  with  an  emphasis  unusual  in  her. 

"  I  don't  know  's  anybody  's  ever  told  you, 
Myra,  that  your  father  's  always  had  that  bent  ? 
When  he  was  quite  a  young  man  —  I  was  a  little 
girl  then  —  he  run  through  all  the  cipherin' 
books  he  could  git,  an'  the  old  minister  that  was 
—  Parson  True  —  he  bought  him  some  more, 
an'  he  run  through  them." 

"Oh,  I  know  that!"  said  Myra.  "Mother 
told  me.  It  always  worried  mother.  It  tried 
her  'most  to  death." 

"  What  made  it  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Ellen.  "  Now 
what  do  you  s'pose  made  it.^" 

Myra  opened  her  mouth  to  speak,  and  then 
closed  it  again.     Her  neat  intelligence  felt  itself 


TREE  OF  A  THOUSAND  LEAVES    197 

rebuffed.     "Why,"    she    said,    "why,    it   did! 
'T  would  worry  anybody." 

"  You  see,"  said  Aunt  Ellen,  ignoring  the  con- 
clusion, "your  mother  knew  all  about  that  be- 
forehand. When  she  married  him,  she  married 
his  cipherin'  too.  That 's  the  long  an'  short 
on  t. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  stand  up  for 
him.?"  asked  Myra,  her  blue  eyes  widening. 

Aunt  Ellen  laughed.  She  had  gone  back  to 
her  air  of  irresponsible  good-humor. 

"  I  Stan'  up  for  'most  everybody,  Myra,"  said 
she.  "Law!  the  minute  you  git  inside  their 
skins  you  can't  help  it.  Now  you  look  here !  ain't 
your  father  contented  when  he  's  cipherin'  ?" 

"Yes,  he  's  contented  enough." 

"Ain't  he  real  pleasant  company  when  he 
ain't  interfered  with.?" 

"Why,  yes.  Aunt  Ellen!  It  takes  up  his 
mind.     He  ain't  got  eyes  nor  ears  for  anybody." 

"Well,  then,  let  him  cipher,  an'  you  do  your 
serpentine,  an'  Elbert  can  do  his  preachin'. 
That 's  all  there  is  to  it." 

Myra  set  her  mouth  in  the  lines  bequeathed 
her  by  her  mother. 

"  Father  's  my  responsibility,"  said  she.  "  Be- 
sides —  Aunt  Ellen,  you  just  cast  your  eye  out 
there ! "  She  rose  and  pointed  from  the  window. 
The  orchard  lay  in  that  direction,  and  the  May 


198  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

sun  was  warm  on  petals  flushed  with  pink.  Aunt 
Ellen  also  rose,  obeying  with  a  mild  regard. 
Nothing  that  Myra  had  to  offer  need,  she 
judged,  stir  her  to  keen  emotion. 

"Where.?"  she  asked. 

"  In  the  gillyflower  tree.   Don't  you  see  him  ?  " 

"Who.?" 

"Father.     There  's  his  legs." 

A  blue  overalled  leg  was  depending  from  a 
bough. 

"  Where  's  t'other  one  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Ellen,  as 
if  it  were  a  question  of  legs. 

"T'  other  one.?"  repeated  Myra  impatiently. 
"T'  other  leg  ?  why,  he  's  sitting  on  it.  See  the 
leaves!"  A  green  shower  fell  from  the  tree. 
"  He  's  picking  off  leaves.  He  's  be'n  doing  that 
for  a  week.  Now  if  you  don't  call  that  being 
out  of  anybody's  head,  what  do  you  call  it .? " 

A  slight  shade  passed  over  Aunt  Ellen's  face. 

"  Have  you  spoke  to  him  about  it .? "  she  asked. 

"  Of  course  I  have.  So  's  Elbert.  Elbert  told 
him  he  should  make  it  a  subject  of  prayer." 

"What  'd  your  father  say?" 

"Why,  he  was  up  in  the  Hubbardston  when 
we  found  it  out,  and  he  just  got  down  out  of  it 
and  walked  away.  'T  was  only  this  morning  I 
see  he  'd  took  to  the  gillyflower." 

Aunt  Ellen  rolled  up  her  work,  in  her  quick 
way,  and  caught  the  scissors  from  the  table. 


TREE  OF  A  THOUSAND  LEAVES    199 

"Where  you  going?"  asked  Myra. 

"  I  thought  I  'd  take  my  sewin'  out  an'  set 
with  your  father  a  spell.  I  '11  borry  that  little 
rocker  out  o'  the  kitchen."  She  was  walking 
toward  the  door,  but  Myra  stepped  hastily  after. 

"You  wait  a  minute,  Aunt  Ellen,"  said  she. 
"  Let  me  finish  up.  I  told  you  I  'd  got  a  plan. 
Elbert  and  I  think  it 's  best  for  father  to  live 
with  us,  and  he  won't.     Father  just  won't." 

"No,"  said  Aunt  Ellen  smoothly;  "I  think  's 
likely  's  not." 

"But  it 's  best  for  father.  Father  's  our  re- 
sponsibility. Elbert  says  we  must  n't  shirk  it. 
Now  father  never  seems  to  think  you  own  half 
of  this  place,  and  always  have,  ever  since  't  was 
left  to  you  and  mother  together.  But  if  you 
should  say  you  'd  made  up  your  mind  to  come 
East  to  live,  it  would  drive  him  right  out  of  here, 
and  there  'd  be  nothing  for  it  but  to  have  him  go 
with  us.  And  it 's  a  real  mercy  we  're  going  to 
live  in  a  town.  He  could  n't  go  climbing  trees 
and  sitting  there  picking  off  leaves.  I  'm  wor- 
ried to  death  about  father.  If  he  ain't  crazy, 
nobody  ever  was ;  and  unless  something  's  done 
where  's  it  all  going  to  end  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Ellen  thoughtfully,  "I 
guess  I  '11  go  out  an'  set  a  spell." 

Ellen  walked  slowly  through  the  orchard,  her 
sewing  in  one  hand  and  the  rocking-chair,  held 


200  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

by  the  top,  bumping  along  behind.  It  was  high 
summer-time  in  the  midst  of  spring.  The  birds 
were  loud  in  a  wild  and  never  dissonant  chorus 
sung  to  different  keys,  and  the  green  was  brilliant 
under  a  fervid  sky.  Ellen  smelled  the  apple 
blossoms,  sweet  with  their  tang  of  bitter,  before 
she  came  under  the  trees,  and  reflected  that  if  it 
were  not  for  that  blossomy  index  of  time,  she 
might  almost  have  thought  it  the  last  of  June. 
She  put  her  chair  down  under  the  gillyflower, 
and  seated  herself.  She  spread  out  her  apron 
and  took  her  work  in  hand.  Only  then  did  she 
lift  a  glance  to  the  overalled  leg. 

"  You  up  there,  William  ?  "  called  she.  "  Ain't 
this  day  the  crowner.^" 

William  swung  himself  into  range.  He  was 
gazing  down  upon  her.  He  was  a  lightly  built 
man  who  looked  something  less  than  his  age. 
His  brown  hair  was  still  thick.  His  blue  eyes 
were  gentle,  and  the  great  forehead  overtopped 
his  face.  But  there  was  something  childlike  and 
sweet  about  his  mouth  and  chin.  Even  at  sixty, 
he  looked  as  if  the  world  might  fret  him  into  a 
perplexed  discomfort  from  which  he  could  see  no 
escape. 

"That  you,  Ellen.?"  he  responded  shyly. 

"  Yes,  it 's  me.  I  thought  I  'd  bring  my  sew- 
in'  out  a  spell,  an'  we  'd  have  a  dish  o'  discourse. 
It 's  an  elegant  day  to  set  up  there  amongst  the 


TREE  OF  A  THOUSAND  LEAVES    201 

branches.  I  wisht  I  could.  But  my!  I  ain't 
clipper-built  like  some." 

William  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  he 
opened  his  hand  and  let  loose  a  fluttering  of 
leaves.  Some  of  them  fell  in  Ellen's  lap,  but  she 
did  not  seem  to  notice  them.  Finally  he  spoke, 
with  a  diflficult  candor. 

"Myra  thinks  I'm  crazed,  settin'  up  here." 

Ellen  laughed  richly. 

"Law!"  said  she,  "fur's  I  can  make  out 
everybody  thinks  everybody's  crazed,  all  ex- 
ceptin'  themselves.  I  dunno'  what  difference  it 
makes  what  we  do,  so 's  we  don't  interfere  with 
other  folks." 

"  Nor  I  neither ! "  replied  William  explosively. 
"Nor  I  neither.  Ellen,  what  should  you  say  if 
I  told  you  I  was  numberin'  off  the  leaves  o'  this 
tree  ?"  He  spoke  with  a  keen  anxiety,  as  if  the 
words  held  more  than  common  value.  Ellen 
dropped  her  spool,  and  there  was  silence  while 
she  stooped  for  it.    Then  she  answered : 

"Why,  I  dunno'  exactly  what  I  should  say! 
Yes,  I  do,  too.  I  guess  I  should  ask  ye  how  fur 
you  'd  got.    How  fur  have  you  got,  William  ? " 

William  kicked  his  legs  forward  with  a  haste 
that  looked  like  jubilation.  They  dangled  from 
the  limb,  and  in  a  moment  his  feet  were  on  the 
ground.  His  face  had  flushed  with  something 
more  than  the  exertion.   It  looked  like  pleasure 


202  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

or  some  tremulous  expectancy.  Ellen  glanced 
up  with  a  frank  smile. 

"My!"  said  she  composedly.  "You  come 
down  like  a  cat." 

There  was  an  old  milking-stool  under  the 
apple-tree.  He  had  put  it  there  to  reach  the 
branches,  not  being  able  to  " shinny"  as  in  early 
youth.  Now  he  took  the  stool  and  set  it  in  front 
of  Ellen,  and  there  he  placed  himself.  He  was  a 
well-made  man,  with  firm,  strong  hands.  He 
was  noticeably  clean  in  his  workaday  clothes, 
and  his  face  looked  very  honest. 

"Ellen,"  said  he,  "seems  if  you  had  more 
sense  'n  the  common  run  o'  women.  Now  you 
look  here.  Don't  you  think  't  would  be  sort  of 
interestin'  to  know  how  many  leaves  there  was 
on  a  tree.^^" 

Ellen's  gaze  met  his  in  an  untroubled  candor. 

"  I  think  't  would  be  terrible  interestin',"  she 
said.    "  I  don't  believe  anybody  ever  did  afore." 

"I  don't  believe  they  ever  did,"  said  William, 
in  a  painful  earnestness.  "  It  come  over  me  last 
winter  when  that  poor  tool  of  a  minister  was 
readin'  a  chapter,  an'  I  was  cipherin',  how  kind 
of  interestin'  it  was  for  the  Lord  to  keep  num- 
berin'  things.  The  hairs  of  our  head,  they  're  all 
numbered,  so  we  're  told.  Then  there  's  the 
fishes  in  the  sea  an'  the  birds  o'  the  air.  They  're 
numbered,  too.     An'  it  come  over  me  when  the 


TREE  OF  A  THOUSAND  LEAVES    203 

leaves  was  out  an'  before  the  canker  worms 
come,  I  'd  number  me  jest  one  tree  an'  know 
how  many  leaves  there  was.  So  I  began  on  the 
old  Hubbardston "  —  A  sinister  recollection 
darkened  his  brow. 

"Well,  what  made  ye  stop?" 

"Myra  'n'  that  young  Nimshi  made  me  so 
tamal  mad  I  lost  count.  Dum  fools!"  But  as 
Ellen  laughed,  a  slow  gleam  overspread  his  face, 
and  he,  too,  laughed. 

"How  fur  ye  got  on  the  gillyflower?"  she 
asked,  as  if  it  were  a  desirable  secret. 

William  looked  whimsically  disconcerted. 

"  I  got  up  to  three  hunderd  an'  nine,"  said  he; 
"but  when  you  come  out,  I  picked  off  three  or 
four  together,  an'  that  way  I  kinder  lost  count." 

"You  don't  say!"  commented  Ellen,  in  a 
warm  excess  of  sympathy.  "  William,  I  tell  you 
what:  you  move  up  into  that  sweet-bough  an' 
begin  over,  an'  I  tell  you  what  you  do.  You 
pick  the  leaves  into  a  basl«;et,  an'  when  you've 
got  as  much  done  as  you  feel  like  doin',  I  '11 
number  'em  over  after  ye,  an'  see  'f  we  agree." 

Tears  stood  in  William's  eyes. 

"Ellen,"  he  said,  "Ellen"—  Then  he 
stopped. 

"  Not  but  what  I  think  your  account  '11  come 
out  right,"  said  Ellen  hastily.  "  I  guess  't  will, 
an'  you  with  your  head  full  o'  figgers.     Parson 


204  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

True  used  to  say  you  was  a  very  gifted  man, 
doin'  sums  an'  all." 

"Did  he?"  asked  William,  in  a  hushed  voice. 
His  face  had  the  unbelieving  joy  of  one  arrived 
at  last.     "  Did  Parson  True  say  that  ?  " 

"Yes,  he  did.  I  heard  it  with  my  own  ears. 
I  wa'n't  nothin'  but  a  little  tot,  but  't  was  the 
year  you  an'  Myra  was  married.  Myra  was 
there,  too.     Did  n't  she  never  tell  ye.^" 

His  face  darkened.  "No,"  he  said,  "no. 
She  'd  ha'  be'n  afraid  't  would  encourage  me. 
She  thought 't  was  all  foolishness,  my  cipherin'." 

"You  an'  Myra  was  a  handsome  couple,"  said 
Ellen  irrelevantly. 

"She  was  a  pretty  girl,"  returned  William 
with  indifference,  as  if  he  made  his  dead  mate  a 
just  concession. 

"Aterrible  handsome  couple," repeated  Ellen. 
Then  she  laughed.  "Law,  William,"  said  she, 
"  there  wa'n't  a  girl  in  town  but  what  would  ha* 
jumped  mast-high  to  git  ye.  I  was  nothin'  but 
a  mite  then.  I  did  n't  grow  up  till  later.  But  I 
remember,  as  if  't  was  yesterday,  jest  how  you 
looked." 

The  dinner  horn,  in  meagre  volume,  broke 
upon  the  air.     Ellen  gathered  up  her  work. 

"  Seems  to  me  she  's  be'n  terrible  spry  with 
her  dinner,"  was  her  smiling  comment.  "But 
there!  time  flies  swift  in  pleasant  company." 


TREE  OF  A  THOUSAND  LEAVES   205 

William  straightened  his  broad  shoulders. 

"Don't  you  go  to  tuggin'  along  that  rocker," 
said  he,  with  a  conscious  gallantry.  "That's 
my  job." 

The  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  William 
looked  remindingly  at  Ellen,  and  she  answered 
by  a  confirming  nod.  Myra  was  there,  clearing 
the  table,  and  William,  after  one  glance  at  her, 
as  if  to  assure  himself  of  her  topography,  went 
out  into  the  shed.  Ellen  followed  him.  He 
jerked  his  thumb  toward  the  kitchen. 

"Don't  say  one  word,"  he  began,  in  a  be- 
seeching undertone,  "  or  she  '11  git  up  on  her 
high  hoss.     You  ain't  forgot  that  numberin'  ?" 

"  Law,  no ! "  said  Ellen  cheerfully.  "  I  should 
admire  to  do  it.  I  'm  ready  when  you  be.  I  've 
got  a  pencil  an'  paper  in  my  pocket,  an'  my 
head  's  as  clear  as  a  bell." 

"That's  jest  the  question."  His  tone  was 
one  of  deep  dejection.  "The  mornin'  's  the 
best  time  o'  day;  but  I  've  got  to  do  my  hoein' 
fust,  whether  or  no.  That 's  one  rule  I  made, 
Ellen.  I  made  it  when  she  was  alive.  I  says, 
I  won't  let  my  figgerin'  prevent  me  from  doin' 
what  other  folks  do.  I  said  that,  Ellen,  an'  I  '11 
hold  to  it.  This  farm  's  as  good  a  farm  as  there 
is  east  o'  the  Connecticut  River." 

He  was  regarding  her  with  a  wistful  anxiety. 
Ellen  knew  he  longed  to  please. 


206  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"Don't  you  worry,  William,"  said  she,  from 
her  all-embracing  kindliness.  "You  've  done 
well  by  the  farm.  Nobody  's  ever  denied  that. 
Now  I  '11  tell  you  what :  long  about  three  o'clock 
Myra  's  goin'  to  ride  with  that  infant  Samwel 
o'  hers,  an'  soon  as  they  're  fairly  down  the  road 
you  an'  I  '11  slip  out  an'  begin  our  numberin'." 

"Father!"  called  Myra,  from  the  kitchen. 
"Father,  you  there?" 

William  turned  with  the  speed  of  one  accus- 
tomed to  count  that  summons  a  dismissal,  and 
loped  away  in  tiptoeing  strides,  as  if  he  trod  un- 
certain ground. 

In  a  moment  Ellen  was  back  in  the  kitchen, 
humming  a  cheerful  stave. 

"You  seen  father.?"  inquired  Myra,  with  the 
sharpness  of  the  true  home  ruler. 

"Your  father.?"  inquired  Aunt  Ellen  plea- 
santly. "  Le'  me  see.  Oh,  yes !  there  he  is  now, 
goin'  out  towards  the  corn-house." 

Myra  took  a  brief  glance  from  the  window  and 
returned  to  her  dishes,  mollified. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  he  's  got  his  hoe.  He  's  ofiF 
my  mind  till  dinner-time.  Well,"  she  went  on 
presently,  as  she  put  the  hot  tumblers  in  their 
draining  pan,  "  what  did  father  have  to  say  for 
himself?" 

"Say  for  himself?"  repeated  Aunt  Ellen 
vaguely.     "When?" 


TREE  OF  A  THOUSAND  LEAVES  207 

"  Yesterday,  out  under  the  gillyflower  tree.  I 
have  n't  had  a  minute  to  ask." 

"Oh,  not  much  of  anything!" 

"Did  n't  he  speak  about  the  numbering?" 

"  Well,  he  kind  o'  beat  'round  it.  I  should  n't 
worry  about  that,  if  I 's  you.  He  don't  mean 
any  harm." 

"  There  's  a  good  many  folks  that  don't  mean 
any  harm,"  said  Myra,  with  a  judicial  com- 
prehensiveness. 

That  afternoon,  when  the  young  preacher 
stopped  at  the  gate.  Aunt  Ellen  was  taking  a 
nap,  and  she  continued  it  until  he  and  Myra 
drove  away.  Then,  peering  at  them  through 
the  blinds,  she  laughed,  and  presently  sped 
down  the  stairs  as  lightly  as  a  girl  to  some  tryst, 
half  humorous,  half  loving.  Under  the  sweet- 
bough  tree  she  halted  and  looked  up.  There 
was  a  shape  in  the  branches,  and  a  sound. 
William  was  laughing.  Immediately  she  was 
aware  that  he  cared  more  about  their  conclave 
than  for  the  number  of  the  leaves. 

"You  ain't  brought  your  chair,"  said  he, 
with  chivalrous  concern. 

"  No.  I  '11  take  this  stool.  I  may  want  to 
clip  it  into  the  house,  if  they  should  turn  'round 
an'  come  back.  Now  you  go  ahead,  William. 
How  you  goin'  to  manage  ?  You  got  anything 
up  there  to  pick  into  ?  " 


208  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"Yes,"  said  William  absorbedly.  "When  I 
git  a  certain  number,  I  '11  pass  it  down  to  you." 

Ellen  sat  there  in  the  sweet  spring  weather, 
and  looked  away  beyond  the  orchard  reaches. 
She  was  delightfully  content.  For  the  last 
twenty  years  she  had  lived  a  life  of  experience 
and  action  such  as  these  men  and  women  could 
scarcely  understand;  yet  here  her  being  had  its 
root,  and  it  had  never  really  been  uptorn.  The 
fibres  had  spread  over  a  wide  surface,  but  from 
this  New  England  soil  she  drew  true  nourish- 
ment. 

"There!"  said  William.  "You  put  up  your 
hand,  an'  I  '11  pass  ye  down  the  basket." 

"Yes,"  said  Ellen.     "Now  I  '11  count." 

She  went  back  to  the  stool  and  sat  there  buried 
in  her  task.  William,  for  the  moment,  was  not 
counting.  He  was  dangling  idly  in  the  branches, 
pondering  over  a  ray  of  sunlight  on  the  bright 
thickness  of  her  hair. 

"Ellen,"  said  he  irrepressibly,  "I  don't  be- 
lieve you  've  got  a  gray  hair  in  your  head!" 

"  Seventy-three  —  seventy-four,"  said  Ellen. 
There  was  a  bubble  of  fun  in  her  voice.  "  Don't 
you  interrupt  my  countin'." 

William  kicked  his  heels  against  a  bough. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  the  stimulus 
of  a  nature  to  which  counting  seemed,  for  some 
reason,  as  important  as  it  did  to  him. 


TREE  OF  A  THOUSAND  LEAVES  209 

"Two  hunderd  an'  seventy-three!"  said 
Ellen. 

" Correct!"  He  came  to  the  ground  with  an 
elastic  speed.  "Say,"  said  he,  "I  guess  we  've 
counted  enough  for  one  day." 

"Law,  William,  we  ain't  half  begun!" 

"  No,  but  there  's  other  days  comin'.  I  was 
thinkin'  last  night,  when  you  an'  Myra  was 
settin'  out  on  the  front  steps,  that  I  ain't  asked 
sca'cely  anything  to  speak  of  about  your  livin' 
out  West." 

"  'T  was  proper  hard,  the  fust  years  of  it," 
said  Ellen,  falling  at  once  into  a  sweet-toned 
confidingness.  "  We  lived  pretty  nigh  the  wind. 
The  worst  days  we  had  was  in  Montana." 

"  'T  was  there  Hiram  was  taken  away,  as  I 
remember." 

"Yes.  You  let  me  put  down  this  number. 
Two  hunderd  an'  seventy-three!  That 's  what 
we  both  made  it.  Now  I  '11  keep  that  paper 
right  in  my  pocketbook,  an'  whenever  you  say 
to  go  on,  it  '11  be  all  ready  to  add  to."  She 
folded  her  plump  hands  in  her  lap,  and  looked 
up  smilingly  at  William,  where  he  stood  leaning 
against  the  tree. 

"Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  you  don't  look  as  if 
you  'd  passed  through  any  hardships,"  said  he, 
with  the  honesty  of  one  unused  to  compliment. 

Ellen  smiled  at  him  and  shook  her  head. 


210  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"I  don't  dwell  on  things,"  said  she.  "What 's 
the  use  when  they  're  over  an'  done  ?  Yes,  we 
had  a  pretty  tough  time;  but  Hiram  left  me 
some  real  estate,  an'  I  sold  out,  an'  there  I  was." 

"  'T  was  said  Hiram  was  a  real  driver,  as  a 
young  man." 

"  Yes,  Hiram  would  ha'  made  money  if  he  'd 
be'n  spared.  He  set  a  good  deal  by  money :  too 
much,  I  thought  sometimes.  He  never  knew 
what  't  was  to  live." 

"So!"  said  William  musingly.  "Well,  he 
was  a  good  deal  of  a  man  an'  a  good  deal  of  a 
loss." 

"  He  was  a  good  deal  of  a  man,"  owned  Ellen 
seriously.  "  Yes,  that 's  so.  But,  I  don't  know 
how  't  was,  William,  I  felt  as  if  I  knew  him 
better  when  we  met  fust  than  I  did  after  we  'd 
lived  together." 

William  gave  a  confirming  nod. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "you  need  n't  tell  me  I  " 

"You  see,  Hiram  was  terrible  busy.  His 
mind  was  on  the  future,  an'  I  always  liked  to 
live  from  day  to  day.  There !  le'  's  not  dwell 
on  them  things.  William,  when  I  stopped  in 
Chicago,  on  my  way  through,  they  showed  me  a 
kind  of  a  machine  for  addin'  up  figgers,  an'  I 
thought  of  you,  an'  how  you  'd  admire  to  see  it 
work." 

"Do  tell!"  said  William. 


\ 


TREE  OF  A  THOUSAND  LEAVES   211 

"Yes,  it  adds  up  figgers  faster  'n  the  mind  o' 
man.  I  dunno'  how  it 's  done,  an'  the  clerk  said 
he  did  n't  either;  but  this  was  the  way  it  acted." 
She  began  the  fairy  tale  of  her  hour  at  the  bank, 
and  William  sat  entranced. 

"The  land!"  she  cried  in  the  midst,  when  the 
five  o'clock  stillness  had  fallen  and  shadows 
were  long  upon  the  grass.  "Don't  you  hear 
wheels  ?   You  clip  it  one  way,  an'  I  will  t'  other." 

The  two  elderly  playmates  sped  in  different 
directions,  and  when  Myra  entered  the  kitchen 
she  found  Aunt  Ellen  "blazing  a  fire"  for  tea. 

"You  seen  father?"  asked  Myra,  taking  off 
her  hat,  and  smoothing  her  careful  braids. 
"He  said  anything  about  what  he  means  to 
do.?" 

"Not  a  word,"  Ellen  assured  her  pleasantly. 
"Your  young  man  's  goin'  to  stay  to  supper, 
ain't  he?  Don't  you  want  I  should  stir  up 
cream-o'-tartar  biscuits?" 

For  the  next  week,  Myra  seemed  to  be  per- 
petually on  the  spot,  and  there  was  little  num- 
bering. Yet  there  were  stolen  moments  in  the 
shed  or  the  barn,  and,  even  once,  driving  the 
cows  together  through  the  dewy  lane.  William 
felt  that  he  was  getting  extraordinarily  well 
acquainted  with  Ellen.  No  one  in  his  life,  save 
his  own  mother,  had  ever  seemed  so  familiar  to 
him.     And  he  had  no  experience  of  any  one 


2U  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

who  was  such  excellent  company.  She  had 
tales  innumerable  to  tell  of  wild  adventure,  most 
of  it  hearsay,  or,  where  it  touched  herself,  keen 
human  happenings.  But,  whenever  she  ap- 
proached the  sadder  side  of  life,  she  would  say, 
in  that  sweet  voice  of  hers,  enriched  by  tolerant 
memories : 

"But  le'  's  not  dwell  on  them  things!"  So  she 
would  turn  aside  like  a  river  bent  on  flowing 
through  flower-bordered  banks.  Life  began  to 
seem  to  him  not  like  a  task  to  be  endured, 
snatching  some  willful  pleasure  by  the  way,  but 
as  something  to  be  cherished.  He  thought  of 
her  more  than  of  his  ciphering.  She  had  the 
appearance  of  making  herself  an  adjunct  only  to 
his  native  tendency;  but  that,  in  turn,  had  be- 
come tributary  to  her,  a  ministrant  and  meeting- 
ground  to  both  of  them. 

One  afternoon,  when  the  air  had  the  still  fore- 
knowledge of  later  summer,  Ellen  saw  him  from 
her  window,  walking  up  and  down  the  orchard 
from  the  sweet-bough  to  the  Hubbardston.  He 
moved  with  the  desperate  stride  of  a  man  stung 
by  harsh  discovery,  and  turned  upon  his  track 
like  an  unhappy  prisoner.  Myra  was  in  the 
dairy  straining  milk,  and  Ellen,  as  she  passed  the 
door,  wondered  how  long  the  task  would  keep 
her.  The  cat  was  lapping  from  a  foamy  saucer. 
Ellen  caught  her  up  and  dropping  her  in  the 


TREE  OF  A  THOUSAND  LEAVES  213 

sitting-room  with  a  thud  of  four  stiff  feet,  shut 
the  door  upon  her.  Then  she  overturned  the 
milk.  Myra,  if  she  appeared  untimely,  would 
find  provision  for  another  five  minutes  in  clear- 
ing up  that  havoc. 

Ellen  sped  to  the  orchard. 

"William,"  she  called,  before  she  reached 
him,  "  William,  what 's  the  matter  ?  " 

He  turned  upon  her  a  face  all  flushed  and 
seamy  with  its  grief. 

"  She  's  be'n  layin'  down  the  law.  She  says 
I  've  got  to  live  with  them." 

"Well,"  said  Ellen,  "that  don't  make  it  so." 

He  scarcely  heard  her. 

"As  true  as  I  stand  here,  Ellen,"  said  he,  "I 
never  've  thought  a  thing  about  your  ownin'  half 
the  place.  I  suppose  if  I  'd  be'n  more  of  a  man 
I  should." 

"Well,"  said  Ellen  brightly,  "if  I  own  one 
half,  you  own  t'  other.  Myra's  mother  left  it  to 
you,  fair  an'  square.  I  never  had  no  great  of  an 
opinion  of  her,  if  she  was  my  sister,  but  she  done 
well  there.  She  mistrusted  Myra  'd  cut  up 
some  kind  of  a  dido." 

William  stood  gazing  at  her  with  a  new  look 
on  his  face.  It  held  some  bitterness,  some 
reproach  of  the  pilfering  years. 

"  Ellen,"  said  he,  "  anybody  but  you  'd  laugh 
at  me.     I  ain't  had  a  thing  as  I  've  wanted  it." 


2U  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"That 's  the  more  reason  for  havin'  it  now," 
said  Ellen. 

"  I  never  took  any  notice  of  you  when  you  was 
a  girl  growin'  up,"  he  went  on,  with  the  angry 
passion  of  middle  age. 

"Well,"  said  Ellen,  "I  took  notice  of  you, 
William.  You  were  the  likeliest  man  I  ever 
see."  A  flush  was  on  her  cheek.  Her  eyes  were 
wet. 

"  An'  here  I  be,  a  man  along  in  years  "  — 

Ellen  thought  she  heard  the  dairy  door. 

"  William,"  said  she  firmly,  as  a  mother  recalls 
a  grieving  child,  "you  hear  to  me.  There  's  a 
good  many  years  gone  by,  but  there  's  a  good 
many  left  —  three  hunderd  an'  sixty-five  days  in 
every  one  of  'em.  You  begin  to  multiply  them 
days,  an'  you  '11  feel  more  or  less  well  off.  I 
guess  we  '11  begin  to  live  by  days  now,  William. 
We  won't  reckon  by  years." 

William  was  looking  at  her  in  a  strange  pas- 
sion unknown  to  him,  mingled  of  hope  and 
wonder. 

"  Ellen,  should  you  be  willin'  to  stay  here  with 
me?" 

"  I  should  be  pleased  to,  William,"  said  Ellen, 
as  if  she  accepted  an  invitation  to  singing- school. 

William  took  a  step  nearer.  A  shining  grati- 
tude was  on  his  face,  and  perhaps,  too,  some 
wondering  sense  of  life's  mobility. 


TREE  OF  A  THOUSAND  LEAVES   215 

"  There  's  plenty  of  better  men  you  might 
marry  now,  Ellen,"  said  he,  in  wholesale  tribute 
to  her.  "  What  I  've  said  this  day  I  wish  I  'd 
said  thirty  year  ago  "  — 

"Well,  you  didn't,"  said  Ellen  practically. 
"  All  you  've  got  to  do  is  to  number  on  from  now. 
Speakin'  o'  numberin',  William,  we  did  n't  get 
along  very  fur  with  our  tree." 

They  were  smiling  into  each  other's  eyes. 
There  was  trust  between  them,  and  happy  fel- 
lowship. 

"I  guess  I  kind  o'  forgot  about  it,"  said  he,  in 
frank  avowal.  "  I  guess  I  've  thought  more 
about  you  lately,  Ellen,  than  I  have  about  the 
leaves.  An'  that  was  a  kind  of  a  makeshift, 
anyway.  It  give  me  an  interest  where  I  had  n't 
none." 

"  Le'  's  see,  how  fur  'd  we  git  ? "  said  Ellen, 
a  smiling  abstraction  in  her  eyes.  "I  know. 
'T  was  nine  hunderd  an'  ninety-eight.  I  told 
you  to  break  off  another  couple,  but  she  ketched 
us  so  quick  you  could  n't.  Here,  William,  you 
pull  off  a  leaf.  Now  I  will.  There,  that 's  it. 
That 's  a  thousand! " 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER 

"  The  Pilgrim  they  laid  in  a  large  upper  chamber,  whose  window 
opened  towards  the  sim-rising:  the  name  of  the  chamber  was  Peace.*' 

The  old  gray  house  stood  in  the  midst  of  lavish 
greenery.  There  were  great  lilac  bushes  crown- 
ing the  bank  wall  at  the  east,  and  on  the  west  an 
orchard  carried  the  eye  through  intimate  reaches 
of  gnarled  wood  and  drooping  branches.  In 
front  was  the  garden,  a  survival  of  ancient 
bloom,  chiefly  green  now  in  its  budding  richness, 
but  smelling  of  leaf- mould  and  the  May.  Zilpha 
Blake  had  no  time  to  attend  to  it;  but  she  did 
dig  a  little  in  a  hasty  fashion  when  her  household 
would  allow  it,  and  ran  out  there  for  a  momen- 
tary solace  if  circumstance  harried  her,  to  pluck 
a  bit  of  sweet  herb  or  a  sprig  of  blue.  Now,  in 
the  flush  of  the  spring  morning,  she  was  follow- 
ing her  nephew,  her  dead  brother's  son,  as  he 
lingered  along  the  road  on  his  homeward  way. 
Her  sympathetic  hand  was  on  his  arm,  and  she 
seemed  to  be  detaining  him,  to  coax  out  the  full 
flood  of  his  exasperated  story.  Zilpha  was  a 
slender,  flaxen-haired  woman,  with  eager  blue 
eyes  and  a  childish  mouth.  She  was  not  pretty, 
simply  capable,  and  adapted,  through  an  ac- 


220  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

quired  patience,  to  much  "flying  'round."  Dan- 
iel stopped  when  he  felt  that  he  was  taking  her 
too  far,  and  began  to  lash  the  roadside  bushes 
with  the  switch  he  had  cut  to  drive  the  cows. 
His  brown  face  was  suffused  with  color,  and  in 
spite  of  his  stature,  in  spite  of  his  commanding 
profile,  he  looked  as  if  he  were  going  to  cry. 
Zilpha  suddenly  thought  that. 

"Don't  you  feel  bad,  Dan'el,"  she  said  in- 
dignantly, as  if  she  were  reproaching  an  absent 
enemy.     "Now  don't  you  take  on." 

"  I  ain't  takin'  on.  You  see.  Aunt  Zil,  she  's 
such  a  little  thing." 

"  Yes,  Dan'el,  yes,  I  know  it."  Her  tone  per- 
suaded, as  her  hand  detained  him.  He  looked 
down  at  the  wet  grass  of  the  pathway,  and  de- 
stroyed a  cobweb  or  two  with  a  wandering  foot. 
Then  his  words  came  rushingly. 

"  Mother  treated  her  well  enough  till  I  told  her 
we  meant  to  get  married." 

"What  she  say  then.?" 

"  She  turned  right  ag'inst  her.  Never  said  a 
word  to  her,  but  she  says  to  me, '  You  remember, 
don't  you,  where  we  got  Annie  Rowe.?  We 
took  her  right  off  the  town  farm,  straight  as  she 
could  come.'" 

"Well!"  said  Zilpha  deprecatingly. 

"  Yes,  that 's  what  she  said.  An'  I  says, 
'  Mother,  she  's  been  here  five  years,  an'  you 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER       221 

know  her  as  well  as  you  do  me.  You  know 
there  ain't  a  lazy  bone  in  her,  nor  an  ugly 
thread.'  I  said  that  to  mother,"  he  added  hastily, 
as  if  to  excuse  an  economic  argument,  "  because 
mother  's  such  a  driver.  I  knew  't  would  n't  cut 
no  ice  with  her  if  I  told  her  Annie  suited  me  to  a 
T,  an'  I  was  goin'  to  marry  her  whether  or  no." 

"So  do,  Dan'el,  if  you  feel  to,  so  do!" 

"Well,  I  reckoned  wrong.  Nothin'  I  could 
say  done  a  mite  o'  good.  Mother  she  turned 
right  ag'inst  her.  She  's  put  the  heft  o'  the 
work  on  her  now,  an'  she  don't  give  her  a  good 
word  from  mornin'  till  night." 

A  shrill,  high-keyed  voice  came  from  the  di- 
rection of  the  house.  It  seemed  to  fly  over  the 
orchard  trees  like  an  insect,  its  song  piercing  as 
it  came. 

"Zilpha!  Zilpha!  where  be  you?" 

Zilpha  heard,  but  she  only  cast  a  glance  in  its 
direction,  and  stepped  nearer  a  shielding  bar- 
berry bush. 

"That  Hetty  Ann?"  asked  Daniel,  accom- 
panying her  look  with  a  frown  of  his  own. 

"  Yes,  it 's  Hetty  Ann.  She  expeji^ts  me  to 
come  up,  the  minute  she  's  awake,  an'  bring  her 
a  cup  o'  hot  water." 

"  I  'd  bring  her  a  cup  o'  cold  p'ison,"  said 
Daniel  moodily. 

"  Law,  no !  hot  water  's  good  for  her.     Keeps 


222  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

her  still,  anyways.  Now,  Dan'el,"  again  she 
touched  him  with  a  reminding  hand,  "  you  must 
n't  forgit  your  mother  's  terrible  obstinate." 

"  I  guess  I  know  that.  She  won't  have  anybody 
do  more  for  folks  than  she  does.  If  I  got  set 
ag'inst  Annie,  she  'd  cocker  her  up.  Mother 's  got 
to  be  on  the  wrong  side  o'  the  fence  anyways." 

"  It 's  a  terrible  hard  place  to  be  in. "  She 
stood  wrinkling  her  brows  in  the  face  of  the 
morning  sun,  considering,  in  the  midst  of  that 
effulgence,  the  resources  of  her  world.  Sud- 
denly her  face  cleared,  with  the  brightening  of 
her  eyes.  She  laughed  a  little,  in  a  shamefaced 
deprecation.  "  I  dunno'  but  you  '11  think  it 's 
pretty  queer,  Dan'el,"  she  said,  "  but  I  've  a 
good  mind  to  ask  you  suthin'." 

"Ask  away.  Aunt  Zil,"  he  said,  softening  ap- 
preciably as  the  talk  touched  her.  "There's 
nothin'  I  would  n't  tell  you." 

"Well"  —  She  paused  a  moment,  her  gaze 
traveling  over  the  rolling  fields  to  the  far  horizon. 
Then  it  returned  to  him.  "  Well,  Dan'el,  it 's 
this:  you  want  Annie  terrible  bad.  Why  don't 
you  kinder  pray  a  little,  an'  see  if  you  can't  git 
her  that  way  ?  " 

He  laughed  outright,  and  patted  her  shoulder 
with  a  gentle  hand. 

"You  don't  get  that  bee  out  o'  your  bunnit, 
do  you,  Aunt  Zil  ?     S'pose  I  should  ask  you  how 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER       223 

much  you  'd  ever  got  yourself  by  prayin',  what  'd 
you  say  then?" 

A  look  of  fear  flitted  into  her  face,  and  her 
eyes  grew  big. 

"Don't  you  say  one  word,  Dan'el,"  she  im- 
plored him.     "I  don't  dast  to  pray." 

"Why  not.?" 

"I  dunno'  's  I  can  tell  ye,  Dan'el.  Yes,  I 
guess  I  can,  too.  It 's  kinder  dangerous.  If  I 
prayed  for  what  I  want,  I  'm  afraid  I  'd  git  it." 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  frown  summoned  to 
men's  brows  by  woman's  tortuous  logic  of  the 
soul.  She  went  swiftly  on,  not  for  his  enlighten- 
ment, but  concerned,  suddenly  and  for  the  mo- 
ment, with  a  rare  interest  in  herself. 

"  Dan'el,  there  's  suthin'  I  've  thought  out,  an* 
I  dunno'  's  I  should  dast  to  mention  it,  even  to 
the  minister.  It  ain't  in  the  Bible.  Leastways 
I  ain't  ever  seen  it  there.  But  I  know  it 's  true. 
Dan'el,  did  it  ever  come  over  you  God  ain't  got 
everything  to  do  with,  more  'n  we  have  ?  Did  it 
ever  come  into  your  head  He  's  kind  o'  poor, 
so  's  He  's  got  to  contrive  an'  plan  when  He  does 
anything  out  o'  the  common,  same  's  the  rest  ?" 
She  was  looking  at  him  in  a  bright  and  eager 
questioning,  and  Daniel  shook  his  head.  "You 
see,"  she  put  the  tips  of  her  small  fingers  to- 
gether in  unconscious  imitation  of  the  minister 
when  he  was  proving  a  point  in  meeting,  "He  's 


2U  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

terrible  indulgent.  When  we  ask  for  anything. 
He  wants  to  give  it  to  us.  But  mebbe  He  can't! 
The  thing  ain't  there.  There  ain't  such  a  thing, 
mebbe,  in  the  whole  world.  S'pose  Hetty  Ann 
had  prayed  she  might  marry  that  good-for- 
nothin'  that  flung  her  off.  Why,  God  could  n't 
ha'  give  her  that,  because  there  wa'n't  no  such 
man  as  Hetty  Ann  thought  he  was,  nor  ever  had 
be'n.  All  she  could  have  was  a  kind  of  a  play 
housekeepin'  here  with  me.  Now,  take  me. 
What  do  you  s'pose  I  want  more  'n  anythin'  else 
under  the  sun  ?  " 

"You  tell,  Aunt  Zil,"  said  the  young  man 
warmly. 

"  Law,  Dan'el,  you  could  n't  git  it  for  me.  I 
want  a  spare  room  —  a  spare  chamber." 

"  Why,  you  've  got  four  chambers,  now."  He 
read  her  face,  creasing  into  its  pucker  of  shrewd 
good-will.  "You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you 
want  one  o'  them  chambers  for  yourself  an'  yet 
you  won't  turn  out  some  o'  them  old  pirates  an' 
take  it  .^" 

"Now,  Dan'el,  you  consider.  Uncle  Tim- 
mie  's  got  one  chamber,  an'  he  's  bedrid,  now 
ain't  he  ?  An'  Hetty  Ann  's  kinder  touched  in 
her  head,  an'  she  's  as  contented  as  a  kitten  if 
she  can  play  she  's  got  a  parlor  an'  a  bedroom. 
So  she  takes  two.  An'  there  's  Aunt  Joyce  in 
the  fourth.     An'  she  's  got  to  have  it,  Dan'el, 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER        225 

she  's  got  to  have  it.  There  ain't  a  soul  on  earth 
would  board  her  for  two  dollars  a  week,  an'  let 
her  set  by  the  winder  muddlin'  over  them  law 
papers  an'  thinkin'  she  's  goin'  to  win  her  case 
an'  git  the  heft  o'  the  state  of  Illinois.  So  that 's 
the  reason  I  can't  pray  for  a  spare  room.  My 
chambers  are  all  took  up." 

"Zilpha!"  came  the  voice  over  the  tree  tops. 
"Zilpha!  where  be  you?" 

"I'll  scooch  down  here  a  minute,"  said  Zil- 
pha,  huddling  up  on  a  stone  by  the  barberry 
bush.  "  Mebbe  they  '11  think  I  've  gone  to  drive 
the  cow."  She  sat  there  like  an  elf,  her  arms 
folded,  and  her  bright  gaze  challenging  his. 
"You  see,"  she  went  on,  reviewing  her  argu- 
ment for  the  first  time  before  another  mind,  "  if 
I  should  pray  for  the  spare  chamber,  I  should 
git  it.  I  make  no  doubt  I  'd  git  it.  But  mebbe 
somebody  'd  have  to  be  swep'  away  to  give  it  to 
me.  Or  mebbe  the  Lord  would  harden  my 
heart,  an'  make  me  put  Hetty  Ann  into  one 
room  an'  take  t'  other  for  myself." 

"  What 's  she  want  two  rooms  for,  anyways  ?" 
said  Daniel,  returning  to  an  irrelevant  issue. 

Zilpha's  face  grew  quite  eager  in  its  wistful 
sympathy. 

"Why,  don't  you  know,  Dan'el.?"  she  asked^ 
in  the  hushed  voice  of  one  who  rehearses  a 
solemn  story.     "You  'd  ought  to  know  that.  He 


226  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

was  goin'  to  marry  her,  an'  everything  was  all 
ready,  even  to  her  rollin'  pin,  and  then  he  wrote 
her  he  did  n't  prize  her  no  more,  an'  he  went  ofiF 
out  West.  So  now  she  kinder  plays  house  up 
there.  She  '11  do  it  by  the  hour,  jest  like  a 
child.  She  ain't  a  mite  o'  trouble,  Dan'el,  not  a 
mite."  Her  eyes  were  shining  with  the  look  of 
earnest  care  evoked  by  all  maimed  creatures  as 
she  saw  them. 

Again  the  voice  came  shrilling  over  the  trees. 
There  was  a  new,  insistent  note  in  it,  and  Zilpha 
got  up  quickly. 

"  Now  I  must  be  goin'  back,"  she  said,  shak- 
ing out  her  dew-wet  skirt.  **  But  if  I  was  you, 
Dan'el,  I  should  kinder  make  it  a  subject  o' 
prayer  about  Annie.  I  should  say,  'If  I  can 
have  her  without  hurtin'  anybody;'  because  you 
would  n't  want  to  do  that,  now  should  you, 
Dan'el?" 

He  turned  heavily  on  his  way. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  leave  the  prayin'  to  you.  Aunt 
Zil,"  he  said.  "As  to  hurtin'  anybody,  I  dunno' 
whether  I  would  or  not.  Anyway,  I  know  this : 
if  you  need  a  spare  chamber,  I  'd  like  mighty 
well  to  clear  out  the  whole  b'ilin'  of  'em  in  there, 
an'  fix  you  up  the  way  you  want.  I  will,  too, 
some  fine  day,  'fore  you  know  it." 

They  smiled  back  at  each  other  with  the  un- 
derstanding of  mates  who  have  weathered  other 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER       227 

gales,  and  took  their  different  ways.  Daniel 
walked  with  head  bent,  still  debating  the  prob- 
lem of  his  love;  but  Zilpha  sped  on  light- 
heartedly.  Inside  her  own  gate,  she  paused  to 
give  the  garden  a  warm  look.  It  was  full  of 
buds,  and  so  many  summers  had  she  known  it 
in  its  fullness  that  it  seemed,  to  her  impetuous 
mind,  to  be  already  in  flower.  It  was  her  un- 
conscious habit  to  dwell  gratefully  upon  the  in- 
ventory of  the  beautiful  earth,  and  in  spite  of 
her  fifty  years  and  the  trials  they  had  brought 
her,  she  felt  only  good  fortune  as  she  ran  into 
her  kitchen  and  set  back  the  neglected  kettle, 
boiling  on  the  stove.  Then  she  stepped  about 
the  room  singing  in  an  underbreath  and  turning 
the  hymn  into  a  paean,  with  its  rich  invitation 
to  the  Beloved,  "Over  the  hills  where  spices 
grow." 

It  was  a  part  of  her  routine  upstairs  that  she 
should  be  the  maid  and  Hetty  Ann  the  mistress. 
So  she  placed  the  cup  of  hot  water  on  a  tray, 
and  ran  up  to  the  east  chamber  where  Hetty  Ann 
sat  in  bed,  her  yellow  hair  streaming  about  her. 
like  sunlight,  and  served  her  with  the  traditional 
manners  of  hired  help.  Great-uncle  Timmie 
was  not  awake,  but  Aunt  Joyce  was  already 
upon  the  stairs.  Zilpha  followed  that  broad 
back  covered  by  a  wrapper  with  a  palm  leaf 
figure,  and  moderated  her  own  steps  in  time  to 


228  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

the  ponderous  thud  of  large  feet  in  carpet  shp- 
pers.  Aunt  Joyce  had  the  blackest  of  thin  hair 
braided  in  little  braids  by  her  ears  and  looped 
back  to  the  knob  behind.  Her  eyes  were  black 
and  sharp  under  broad  splashes  of  brow,  and  her 
cheeks  were  of  a  hard  red,  veined  by  a  network 
of  darker  hue,  like  an  unskilled  painting  upon 
wood.  At  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  she  spoke 
without  turning: 

"That  you,  Zilpha ?  I  guess  I  '11  have  a  cup 
o'  tea  this  mornin'.  Coffee  kinder  goes  ag'inst 
me  somehow." 

*'  Green  tea  or  black  ?"  asked  Zilpha  blithely, 
at  the  kitchen  door.  She  was  unreasonably 
pleased.  The  mere  talk  of  satisfied  wishes  had 
given  her  a  lilting  sense  of  something  wonderful 
quite  near.  Aunt  Joyce  turned  and  interro- 
gated her  with  a  judicial  though  not  an  un- 
kindly eye. 

"You  ain't  be'n  an'  bought  two  kinds?"  she 
asked. 

Zilpha  laughed. 
,   "No,  I  ain't.  I  had  black  on  hand.  T' other's 
the  sample  the  grocery  give  out  last  week." 

Half  an  hour  later,  sitting  at  the  kitchen  table, 
drinking  tea,  and  forgetting  how  Aunt  Joyce's 
girth  shut  out  the  lilacs  and  the  sun,  she  listened 
with  half  a  mind  to  the  other  woman's  meander- 
ings  in  the  old  channel  of  the  dragging  lawsuit 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER       229 

and  the  land.  With  the  rest  of  her  intelligence 
she  was  running  about  the  earth,  picking  up 
pleasures  here  and  there,  trifles  nobody  wanted, 
and  ranging  them  in  order  in  her  spare  room. 

"Zilpha,  what  you  thinkin'  about.?"  inquired 
Aunt  Joyce  suddenly.  "  You  ain't  heard  a  word 
I  said." 

Zilpha  guessed  at  random. 

"  You  said  if  you  could  only  come  on  that  deed 
from  Uncle  Samwel  to  Aunt  Mirandy,  your 
title  'd  be  complete." 

"Yes,  that  was  what  I  said,"  owned  Aunt 
Joyce  mollified.  "  I  thought  you  was  dreamin', 
that  way  you  've  got." 

But  Zilpha  had  heard  the  lamentation  over 
the  deed  for  many  years,  and  her  own  mind 
responded  to  an  echo. 

"That  deed  wa'n't  ever  recorded,"  Aunt 
Joyce  continued,  pounding  out  her  words  with 
an  irritating  beat  of  emphasis.  "  The  very  day 
he  died.  Uncle  Samwel  set  out  to  git  it  put  on 
record,  an'  he  dropped  down  right  in  front  o' 
the  courthouse,  an'  nothin  's  ever  be'n  heard  o' 
that  paper  from  that  day  to  this.  An'  whether 
't  was  stole  out  o'  his  pocket,  or  whether  he  lost 
it  on  the  road" —  But  no  one,  save  new- 
comers in  the  town,  ever  heard  Aunt  Joyce's 
stories  to  the  end. 

All  that  day  Zilpha  went  about  her  work  to 


230  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

the  rhythm  of  an  invocation  made  to  suit  her 
needs.  It  was  that  Daniel  should  be  given  his 
Annie,  if  it  could  be  managed  "without  hurtin' 
anybody."  And  then,  in  a  guilty  whisper,  as  if 
other  than  beneficent  powers  might  hear,  she 
added,  with  the  same  qualifying  phrase,  "I 
wisht  I  could  have  a  spare  room."  The  habit 
of  petition  became  pleasant  to  her,  and  at  the 
end  of  a  week  the  spare  room  seemed  quite  near. 
This  was  one  of  her  hard  weeks.  Hetty  Ann 
took  down  her  curtains,  with  a  housewifely  im- 
pulse, and  tried  to  wash  them  in  a  bowl.  tJncle 
Timmie,  who  had  the  quietude  of  a  gentle  an- 
imal trained  to  habit,  owned  that  he  was  "  kinder 
tired  o'  layin'  still,"  and  Aunt  Joyce,  according 
to  the  family  phrase  dedicated  to  her  since  she 
was  a  girl,  "reigned  supreme."  In  the  early 
morning  she  was  at  Zilpha's  door,  propounding 
new  hypotheses  touching  the  stolen  deed;  and 
one  afternoon,  when  Zilpha  had  betaken  herself 
to  the  sitting-room  lounge  to  rest  her  tired  feet, 
she  felt  a  presence  through  her  closed  eyelids, 
and  opened  them,  with  a  snap,  to  find  Aunt 
Joyce  looming  before  her  like  a  cloud.  She 
wore  her  black  alpaca  and  her  bonnet  trimmed 
with  ancient  crape.  She  had  thrown  back  her 
bonnet  strings,  and  stood  fanning  her  face  with 
the  county  paper. 

"I  be'n  to  the  post-oflSce,"  she  volunteered. 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER       231 

"I  walked  all  that  two  mile,  hopin'  to  ketch  a 
ride,  an'  then  I  walked  back  ag'in.  Zilpha,  I 
got  a  letter  from  the  lawyer.  What  you  s'pose 
he  said?" 

"I  dunno',"  returned  Zilpha  wearily. 

"  He  said  if  I 's  to  find  that  deed,  it  would 
clinch  the  whole  thing." 

"  What  deed  ?  "  asked  Zilpha,  from  her  dream. 

"  My  soul  an'  body !  ain't  you  heard  a  word  I 
said  ?  That  deed  Uncle  Samwel  gi'n  Aunt  Mi- 
randy.  Zilpha,  you  wake  up !  Ain't  you  got  no 
seem  to  ye.^" 

Zilpha  rose  to  her  feet.  She  felt  called  by  an- 
other than  Aunt  Joyce.  Something  within  her 
raised  an  imperious  note  and  bade  her  save  her 
soul  alive.  She  stood  still  for  a  moment  rubbing 
her  dazed  eyes,  and  then  in  the  full  flood  of  Aunt 
Joyce's  adjurations,  she  turned  about  and  sped 
out  of  the  room,  through  the  kitchen,  and  into 
the  shed.  There  she  paused,  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  distance,  an  old  phrase  starting  up  in 
her  memory: 

"Over  the  hills  and  far  away,** 

it  sang  itself,  and  her  lips  formed  the  words 
aloud : 

"I  wisht  I  could  run  off!" 

But  at  that  instant  Hetty  Ann,  at  a  window 
above,  raised  her  thin  voice  in  a  crooning  song, 


232  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

as  it  might  have  been  to  a  child.  At  the  first 
note  Zilpha  straightened,  and  she  turned  about 
soberly,  all  the  myriad  calls  of  other  souls  in 
unison  against  her.  At  the  kitchen  door  she 
paused  again,  remembering  the  bright  world 
without,  and  it  was  then  that  her  eyes  fell  upon 
the  rough  stairs  in  the  corner  of  the  shed. 
"  My  soul ! "  cried  Zilpha.  "  O  my  soul ! " 
She  ran  up  the  stairs  and  into  the  brown- 
raftered  room  packed  with  the  litter  of  old  years, 
and  known  and  forgotten  as  the  "shed  chamber." 
She  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  one  vacant  floor 
space,  and  looked  about  her  at  the  broken  chairs, 
the  chests  and  tables  of  a  bygone  time.  The 
worm-eaten  walls  were  low,  but  there  was  a 
window  opening  through  grapevine  leaves  and 
tendrils  to  the  east.  The  place  exhaled  an  at- 
mosphere of  calm.  No  human  moods  had  left 
their  invisible  arras  upon  its  walls.  No  one  had 
slept  there,  nor  talked  out  the  trials  of  the  day. 
From  time  to  time  through  the  year  some  one 
had  come,  with  unrecognizing  glance,  to  cast  a 
broken  bit  of  household  goods  into  the  corner 
and  go  again.  The  room  had  lived  its  life  alone, 
accumulating  no  memories.  It  had  been  a  sleep- 
ing possibility,  and  Zilpha,  with  a  catch  in  her 
throat,  knew  it  had  waked  for  her.  She  drew 
out  an  old  flag-bottomed  rocking-chair,  and 
placed  it  by  the  windojv.     There  she  sat  down. 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER       233 

and  looked,  in  measureless  content,  through  the 
grape  leaves  at  the  sky.  She  had  her  spare 
chamber.  All  that  afternoon  she  sat  in  a  dream, 
not  of  any  conscious  well-being,  but  of  rest.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  loads  of  life  were  floating  to 
some  unknown  shore  upon  a  tide  of  peace,  and 
when  she  met  Aunt  Joyce  at  the  supper  table, 
her  old  cheerfulness  had  come  back,  throbbing 
with  a  fuller  note  out  of  her  certainty  that  now 
there  was  something  to  justify  it. 

"  You  be'n  asleep  ^ "  asked  Aunt  Joyce,  noting 
her  pink  flush  and  dewy  eyes. 

"  No,  I  guess  not,"  said  Zilpha  vaguely. 

"  Where  you  be'n  all  the  arternoon?" 

*' Oh, 'round!" 

The  next  day  Zilpha  finished  her  housework 
in  haste,  and  set  about  cleaning  the  shed  cham- 
ber. She  moved  softly  lest  Aunt  Joyce  should 
hear,  and  every  nerve  and  muscle  trembled  with 
the  excitement  of  dragging  down  the  litter  of 
furniture  to  pile  it  in  a  corner  of  the  shed.  In 
due  time  the  chamber  was  sweet  and  clean;  it 
smelled  of  soap  instead  of  its  own  delicious 
mustiness,  and  Zilpha  felt  in  it  a  double  charm, 
responsive  to  her  hand.  She  had  with  infinite 
pains  set  up  an  old  bedstead,  and  laid  on  it  an 
extra  husk  bed  from  her  own  room.  There  was 
the  chair  by  the  window,  and  a  table  near  the 
stairs.     Looking  about,  she  could  not  see  that  it 


234  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

might  have  been  bettered  for  her  purposes.  She 
could  lie  down  upon  the  bed,  she  could  rest  in 
the  chair,  and  she  could  set  a  glass  of  water  on 
the  table.  It  was  enough.  Thereafter,  for  a 
week  or  more  she  gave  her  charges  a  zealous 
tendance  all  the  forenoon,  to  slip  away  from 
them  with  a  clear  mind  at  two  o'clock,  and  spend 
an  hour  in  her  retreat.  But  one  day  she  caught 
herself  back  out  of  her  dream,  and  sat  there,  still 
with  fear.  Aunt  Joyce's  heavy  step  had  en- 
tered the  shed.  She  was  looking  about  in  one 
of  her  familiar  missions  of  inquiry,  and  pre- 
sently Zilpha  heard  her  overhauling  the  pile  of 
furniture.  There  was  a  rattle  and  a  pause  while 
Aunt  Joyce  pondered  over  what  she  had  found. 
Then  her  voice  arose  commandingly  through  its 
veiling  huskiness. 


Zilph 


99 


But  Zilpha  did  not  move. 

The  rummaging  and  clattering  went  on,  and 
by  and  by  Aunt  Joyce  took  her  heavy  progress 
toward  the  sitting-room,  calling  Zilpha  as  she 
went.  Then  the  little  guest  of  the  upper  cham- 
ber slipped  downstairs  and  into  the  kitchen,  and 
there  Aunt  Joyce,  returning,  met  her. 

"Where  you  be'n.^"  queried  Aunt  Joyce, 
though  in  an  absent  questioning. 

"Oh,  'round!"  said  Zilpha,  with  the  ease  of 
one  who  has  found  a  phrase  to  serve.     Aunt 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER       235 

Joyce  hardly  heeded.  Her  black  eyes  were 
piercing  with  the  wonder  of  discovery. 

"Zilpha,"  said  she,  "I  never  set  eyes  afore  on 
that  old  truck  in  the  corner  o'  the  shed." 

"Did  n't  you  ?"  asked  Zilpha  trembling. 

"  Never,  long  as  I  've  be'n  in  an'  out.  Did  n't 
there  use  to  be  a  pile  o'  wood  there  ?  " 

"I  guess  so,"  said  Zilpha,  in  a  faltering  voice. 

"Was  the  wood  piled  in  front  on  't.?" 

"I  guess  not." 

"  Zilpha,  don't  you  be  so  numb.  Do  you  know 
what 's  out  there  in  that  pile  ?  There  's  Aunt 
Mirandy's  hair  chist  with  a  lot  o'  her  things 
in  it.  There  's  Uncle  Samwel's  leg  boots,  the 
ones  he  had  on  when  he  died.  I  know,  for  they 
had  to  cut  the  legs  to  git  'em  off.  I  've  stood  'em 
up  there  on  the  hair  trunk.   You  go  look  at  'em." 

Zilpha  hurried  into  the  shed,  but  not  to  in- 
terrogate Uncle  Samwel's  boots.  She  went  to 
the  shed  door,  and  stood  there  gazing  at  the  sky, 
blurred  now  by  her  rebellious  tears.  Her  cita- 
del was  in  danger.  Aunt  Joyce  had  begun  ex- 
ploration, and,  fired  by  the  treasures  before  her, 
she  would  keep  on.  One  sight  of  the  shed 
chamber  stairs,  and  she  would  go  toiling  up  in 
search  of  unknown  stores  above.  For  a  moment 
Zilpha  stood  there  rigid  with  intensity  of  thought, 
and  then  a  purpose  leaped  into  her  brain  and 
strengthened  her  to  meet  the  fray.    Five  o'clock 


236  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

struck,  and  she  turned  soberly  about  to  get  sup- 
per, and  listen  to  Aunt  Joyce  in  her  excited 
monologue  wherein  Uncle  Samwel's  boots  came 
like  a  recurring  beat. 

Aunt  Joyce  was  in  high  feather  that  evening. 
She  sat  in  the  kitchen  in  the  dusk,  and,  inspired 
by  her  afternoon's  feast  upon  the  relics  of  the 
past,  told  interminable  stories  of  the  family,  all 
feuds  and  warfare.  Zilpha  hardly  answered  her. 
She  sat  there,  looking  straight  in  front  of  her, 
with  eyes  that  seemed  to  pierce  the  dark. 

"You  'sleep,  Zilpha  ?"  Aunt  Joyce  asked  sud- 
denly, breaking  her  stream  of  reminiscence. 

Zilpha  did  not  answer. 

"  You  'sleep  ?  My  soul !  You  ain't  a  mite  o' 
company.     I  '11  go  to  bed." 

She  stalked  grumbling  up  the  stairs,  and  Zil- 
pha listened.  The  heavy  steps  moved  intermit- 
tently about  the  room  above,  and  then  they 
ceased.  There  was  a  creaking  of  the  bed.  Aunt 
Joyce  was  set  in  bounds  for  one  night  more. 
Zilpha  rose,  and,  light-footed  as  an  intruder 
moved  to  some  guilty  task,  stole  out  into  the 
shed,  and  began  to  pile  cord- wood  sticks  in  front 
of  the  shed  chamber  stairs.  For  an  hour  she 
worked  passionately,  like  some  fierce  little  an- 
imal barricading  its  home.  Then  she  stopped 
and  wiped  her  forehead  with  one  trembling 
hand.     Triumph  was  in  her  heart. 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER       237 

"Zilpha!"  came  a  soft  voice  from  the  door. 
"Zilpha,  you  here?" 

"That  you,  Annie?  What  is  it?  Anybody 
sick?"  She  hurried  to  the  door  and  laid  her 
hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  young  girl  standing 
there.  It  was  moonlight,  and  Annie's  face 
looked  pure  and  pale  in  the  beguiling  beams. 
She  began  to  sob,  with  sudden  violence. 

"  Oh,  my,  Zilpha ! "  she  kept  repeating.  "  Oh, 
my!" 

"There,  there,  don't  you  take  on!"  urged 
Zilpha,  in  alarm.  "  Ain't  anything  happened  to 
Dan'el,  has  there?  Annie,  you  speak.  You 
scare  me  'most  to  death." 

"  It  ain't  Dan'el.  He  's  gone  off  to  buy  some 
cattle.  He  's  goin'  to  be  gone  four  or  five  days. 
She  's  been  awful  to  me.  She  begun  soon  as  he 
was  off." 

"His  mother?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  blame  her.  She  can't  bear 
me,  because  she  wants  him  to  look  higher,  an' 
to-night  she  got  mad  an'  did  n't  know  what  she 
was  sayin',  an'  she  twitted  me  about  the  poor- 
farm,  an'  I  pretended  to  go  upstairs  to  my  cham- 
ber; but  I  've  run  away,  Zilpha,  I  've  run  away." 

"There,  there,  dear,"  said  Zilpha  crooningly, 
in  the  tone  she  had  for  hushing  Hetty  Ann. 
"  Don't  you  take  on.  You  're  goin'  to  stay 
right  here  with  me." 


238  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"  Oh,  no,  I  ain't !  Your  house  is  all  took  up. 
Dan'el  said  you  had  n't  a  place  to  lay  your  head 
but  what  somebody  could  walk  in  an'  rout  you 
out  like  a  dog." 

"Yes,  I  have,  dear,  yes,  I  have!"  said  Zilpha 
excitedly,  in  a  rush  of  ardent  thought.  ''I  got  a 
spare  chamber.  Annie,  you  wait  a  minute. 
You  Stan'  right  there,  an'  don't  you  stir." 

She  brushed  past  the  girl  and  ran  with  eager 
footsteps  to  the  barn.  In  a  moment  she  was 
back,  staggering  breathless  under  a  short  ladder. 

"You  help  me  a  mite,"  she  whispered. 
*' There.  We  '11  set  it  here,  so-fashion.  Never 
mind  the  vine.  There  's  enough  on  't,  if  we  do 
break  it.  Now  you  go  up.  Step  right  into  the 
winder.     I  '11  be  up  there  in  a  minute." 

Annie  was  used  to  acting  under  orders.  She 
climbed  deftly,  and  when  Zilpha  followed  her,  a 
little  later,  with  bedclothes  and  a  candle,  the 
girl  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  in 
lax  and  patient  wonderment.  She  looked  about 
her  when  Zilpha  had  lighted  the  candle  and  its 
gleam  brought  straggling  shadows  into  life. 

"Why,  Zilpha,"  she  said.  '*!  didn't  know 
you  had  this  room." 

"Nobody  knew  it,"  said  Zilpha  hilariously, 
intoxicated  by  the  drama.  ''I  didn't  hardly 
know  it  myself.  I  dunno'  's  't  was  here  till 
t'  other  day.     I  guess  't  was  kinder  created  an' 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER        239 

give  to  me.  But  it 's  my  spare  room.  Now  you 
go  round  on  t'  other  side  there,  an'  we  '11  put  on 
some  sheets." 

When  Annie  was  in  bed,  quieted  and  almost 
content,  Zilpha  straightened  the  coverlet,  in  a 
cozy  way  she  had,  and  turned  to  go.  But  Annie 
caught  her  skirt  with  a  detaining  hand. 

*'0  Zilpha,"  she  said,  **you  're  real  good!  I 
only  come  to  leave  word  how  't  was,  so  you 
could  tell  Dan'el ;  an'  I  had  n't  a  spot  to  call 
my  own,  an'  now  here  I  am." 

"  You  're  goin'  to  stay,"  whispered  Zilpha,  in 
a  tone  of  ardent  confidence.  *'I 've  piled  the 
stairs  up  so  's  Aunt  Joyce  won't  think  o'  mount- 
in'  'em;  but  I  can  move  some  o'  the  sticks  an' 
kinder  pick  my  way.  I'll  bring  ye  your  break- 
fast all  complete,  an'  don't  you  show  your  head 
to  the  winder." 

"  O  Zilpha,"  breathed  the  girl  again,  "  you  're 
dretful  good." 

That  night  Zilpha  could  hardly  sleep  for  the 
excitement  of  the  time,  and  at  six  o'clock  she 
was  at  the  shed  chamber  door  with  Annie's 
breakfast,  hot  corn-cake,  coffee,  and  an  egg. 
The  girl  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  eager  as  a  child 
and  as  innocently  fair.  Her  curling  locks  were 
all  about  her,  and  she  was  rubbing  her  eyes 
awake.  She  laughed,  and  the  dimples  sprang 
about  her  mouth. 


240  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"You  pretty  creatur'!"  cried  Zilpha,  in  the 
delight  she  always  had  in  a  beauty  never  hers, 
and  so  as  mysterious  to  her  as  the  dawn.  **I 
never  knew  you  was  so  well-favored,  seein'  ye 
round  the  kitchen  in  that  old  choc'late  print." 

"  I  can't  have  you  waitin'  on  me,  Zilpha.  I 
truly  can't." 

"  We  '11  see.  You  keep  still  a  day  or  two,  till 
Dan'el  gits  home.  You  can  come  down  into 
the  shed,  an'  mebbe  you  could  slip  into  the 
kitchen  when  Aunt  Joyce  ain't  'round.  Tell  ye 
what  I  '11  do.     When  the  coast  is  clear,  I  '11  sing, 

**  *  Come,  my  Beloved*' 

I  '11  sing  it  real  loud." 

So  for  three  days  the  idyl  went  on,  and  on  the 
morning  of  the  fourth,  Zilpha,  holding  a  bowl  of 
beaten  egg,  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  shed 
chamber  stairs,  singing, 

"  Come,  my  Beloved," 

and  beating  as  she  sang.  She  was  making  cus- 
tard, and  she  wanted  to  ask  Annie  whether  to 
put  nutmeg  on  the  top.  She  heard  a  sound 
above,  and  Annie's  foot,  she  knew,  was  on  the 
sill,  and  then,  like  a  ghost  in  carpet  slippers, 
Aunt  Joyce  appeared,  standing  in  the  kitchen 
door.  Zilpha  screamed,  and  the  hinges  over- 
head creaked  in  turning. 

"What  under  the  sun's  the  matter?"  de- 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER        241 

manded  Aunt  Joyce  testily.  **You're  as  ner- 
vous as  a  witch." 

"  I  guess  anybody  'd  be  nervous  to  see  you 
pokin'  over  them  old  things  in  the  corner  there," 
said  Zilpha,  with  a  new  asperity,  summoned  to 
hide  her  nest.  *'For  mercy  sake.  Aunt  Joyce, 
you  let  me  burn  up  that  old  truck"  — 

Something  clattered  in  the  room  above.  Aunt 
Joyce  cocked  her  head. 

'^What's  that.?"  she  demanded.  ''Didn't 
you  hear  suthin'  overhead?" 

"  As  for  them  old  boots,  they  'd  ought  to  gone 
into  the  fire  long  ago." 

Still  Aunt  Joyce  was  listening,  and  Zilpha,  in 
a  wild  defense,  caught  up  the  boots. 

"I  '11  burn  'em  up  this  minute,"  she  avowed. 

"Zilpha,"  cried  Aunt  Joyce,  "don't  you  do 
no  such  a  thing.  Them  were  Uncle  Samwel's 
boots.  He  died  in  'em.  You  leave  them  boots 
to  me." 

She  laid  a  hand  upon  one,  and  Zilpha,  with  a 
nervous  passion  that  seemed  to  her  like  mad- 
ness, tossed  the  other  out  of  the  shed  door. 
Something  within  detached  itself,  and  fell.  Then 
Aunt  Joyce  began  screaming  in  a  hoarse  volume 
of  sound,  uncouth  and  dreadful,  and  the  door 
above  creaked  open. 

"Zilpha  Blake,  I  've  got  my  deed!  I  've  got 
my  deed!"     She  plunged  out  through  the  door- 


242  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

way,  and  opened  the  paper  with  a  quivering 
hand.  "My  deed!  my  deed!"  she  cried,  in  the 
same  ungoverned  voice,  and  Zilpha  sat  down  on 
the  step  of  the  shed  door  and  laughed  and 
sobbed.  When  she  came  to  a  sense  of  the  outer 
world.  Aunt  Joyce,  on  one  side,  was  shaking  her 
and  calling,  **  Zilpha  Blake,  you  git  up  here,  an' 
help  me  pack  my  things.  I  've  got  my  deed,  an' 
I  'm  goin'  to  Illinois  this  arternoon !"  and  Daniel 
had  a  hand  upon  her  other  shoulder.  He  was 
saying  heavily,  at  intervals,  like  a  machine  made 
to  work  that  way: 

"  Aunt  Zilpha,  where  's  Annie  ?  Aunt  Zilpha, 
where 's  Annie.?"  Then,  as  Zilpha  turned  a 
mirthful  face  from  one  to  the  other,  he  took  his 
hand  from  her  shoulder  and  laid  it  on  Aunt 
Joyce's  wrist. 

"If  you're  goin'  to  Illinois,"  said  Daniel 
plainly,  ''you  march  in  an'  pack  up  your  things, 
an'  I  '11  take  ye  to  the  Junction." 

He  turned  her  about,  and  Aunt  Joyce,  her 
face  streaked  with  the  wonder  of  the  event,  went 
in  to  pack  her  trunk. 

"Aunt  Zilpha,"  said  Daniel  gently,  "where  's 
Annie?" 

Zilpha  rose  to  her  feet.  Until  this  moment, 
one  thought  had  moved  her:  Aunt  Joyce  was 
going  away.  Now  she  laid  hold  of  Daniel's 
coat,  and  gripped  it  with  both  trembling  hands. 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER        243 

She  was  quite  aware  that  a  woman  stood  behind 
him  like  a  fate,  his  mother,  hot-blooded,  warm- 
hearted, jealous,  and  above  all,  obstinate,  and 
bearing  in  her  seamed  face  and  piercing  eyes 
traces  of  emotions  that  had  fought  in  her  for 
seventy  years.  That  morning  she  had  told  him 
Annie  was  gone,  and  met  his  anger  with  hot 
words.  Yet  she  had  followed  him,  afraid  that 
he,  too,  might  disappeai>  or  rashly  do  himself 
some  harm.  All  this  Zilpha,  seeing  her,  seemed 
to  know  by  old  experience;  but  she  could  not 
stop  to  weigh  the  outcome  of  it.  One  thought 
possessed  her,  and  she  was  holding  Daniel's  coat 
that  she  might  tell  him. 

"Dan'el,  Dan'el,"  she  urged  brokenly,  *'don't 
you  see  how  it 's  come  out  ?  Aunt  Joyce  's  goin' 
to  Illinois.  Her  chamber  '11  be  empty,  an'  you 
an'  Annie  can  git  married  an'  come  right  here. 
You  can  carry  on  your  farm  work  jest  the  same. 
Annie  'n'  I  can  git  along  complete.  You  come, 
Dan'el,  you  come." 

"  Zilpha  Blake,"  said  Daniel's  mother,  in  the 
voice  of  one  who,  from  an  untouched  height,  is 
dealing  out  calm  justice  to  the  world,  **I  should 
be  obliged  to  you  if  you  would  keep  your  hands 
off'n  Dan'el  long  enough  for  me  to  have  a  few 
words  with  him.  He  's  be'n  off  some  days,  an' 
when  I  do  git  a  chance  to  speak,  I  should  like  to 
say  Annie  's  be'n  called  away,  but  she  '11  be 


244  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

home  all  right.  If  she  ain't,  we  shall  look  her 
up,  Dan'el  an'  me.  I  '11  tell  you,  Zilpha,  though 
I  ain't  spoke  of  it  to  anybody  else,  Dan'el 's 
thinkin'  of  gittin'  married  in  a  few  weeks,  an' 
he  '11  move  into  t'  other  part  o'  the  house." 

"  Aunt  Zilpha,"  said  Daniel,  giving  her  shoul- 
der a  little  shake,  ''where  's  Annie?" 

"O  Dan'el,  here  I  am,"  came  a  voice  from 
the  window  above.  There  was  the  young  face, 
framed  in  quivering  vine  leaves. 

Zilpha  felt  something  mounting  in  her  throat, 
and  Daniel  involuntarily  held  out  both  hands. 
His  mother  spoke,  and  her  voice  shook  a  little. 

"  You  be  home  to  dinner,  both  on  ye.  There 's 
tongues  an'  sounds.  Annie,  you  be  sure  to 
come." 

"  O  mother!"  said  Daniel,  in  quick  compunc- 
tion, starting  after  her. 

"You  come  home,  Dan'el,"  she  counseled 
him,  in  a  persuasive  voice.  "  You  take  half  the 
house,  Dan'el,  you  take  half  the  house.  'T  ain't 
fittin'  for  young  folks  to  live  with  old  folks,  any- 
ways. But  don't  you  go  to  snappin'  up  offers 
from  folks  that  don't  concern  ye.  Don't  ye  do 
it.     You  come  home,  an'  bring  Annie." 

Zilpha  was  not  listening.  She  had  heard 
Aunt  Joyce  above,  dragging  about  a  trunk,  and 
sped  to  help  her.  Annie,  radiant  in  her  youth 
and  the  bloom  of  joy,  was  coming  out  of  the  shed 


THE  PILGRIM  CHAMBER        245 

chamber,  and  Zilpha,  seeing  how  these  days  of 
rest  and  calm  had  changed  her,  reflected  that  no 
one  had  ever  seen  her  as  she  was  to  be,  shielded 
and  secure. 

"  You  shet  the  door,  Annie,"  she  called  hap- 
pily, waving  a  hand  to  her.  *'You  go  with 
Dan'el.  Leave  the  room  as  't  is,  an'  this  arter- 
noon  I  '11  slip  up  an'  put  it  all  to  rights." 


THE  TWISTED  TREE 


THE  TWISTED  TREE 

Sylvia  Medway  was  sitting  by  the  north  win- 
dow, gazing  out  into  the  back  yard.  She  was 
young,  and  all  a  sweet  pathos  from  her  pallor 
and  the  hopeless  look  of  her  blue  eyes.  A  com- 
forter had  been  spread  over  the  big  rocking- 
chair  where  she  sat,  and  she  leaned  back  against 
it  wearily,  her  hands  in  her  lap.  Her  fair  hair 
had  been  braided  in  two  braids  that  hung 
almost  to  her  waist,  and  her  delicate  chin 
looked  sharp  in  its  outline  above  her  bare  white 
throat. 

"  Sylvy,"  called  her  mother  from  the  kitchen. 

"What  is  it?"  answered  Sylvia.  Her  voice 
had  a  depth  that  had  once  been  rich  and  wonder- 
ful; now  it  was  only  tired. 

"Haven  's  goin',"  continued  her  mother  ur- 
gently. "Don't  you  want  I  should  knock  for 
him  to  come  in?" 

*'No,"  said  Sylvia.  It  was  indifference  that 
dulled  her  voice  anew.  **  He  '11  come  if  he  's  got 
anything  to  say." 

Her  mother  bustled  in  from  the  kitchen,  and 
pulled  out  the  table  with  a  jerk.  She  put  up  its 
leaves,  and  spread  the  cloth  like  magic.    Once 


250  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

Sylvia  had  excelled  even  her  in  flying  dexterity. 
Now  it  seemed  to  her,  as  she  looked  on  at  it, 
nothing  more  than  the  beating  of  a  fly  against 
the  pane.  Mrs.  Med  way  went  on  setting  the 
table.  She  was  a  tall  woman,  with  a  long  nose, 
and  smooth  black  hair  parted  and  brought  down 
in  a  glossy  coat.  Her  cheeks  were  a  wintry  red, 
and  she  wore  long  gold  pendants  in  her  ears. 

"There  he's  be'n  to  work  over  here  every 
minute  from  'leven  o'clock  on,"  she  argued, 
"settin'  out  laylocks  an'  syringas.  Where  he 
got  'em  I  dunno' ;  but  if  you  wanted  a  slice  o' 
the  moon  for  breakfast  he  'd  find  it  for  ye." 

"  He  sent  to  the  nursery  for  'em,"  said  Sylvia 
indifferently.  "I  did  n't  ask  him  to,  mother. 
I  ain't  to  blame." 

"To  blame!  Who  said  you  was  to  blame ?" 
Mrs.  Medway  was  still  juggling  with  the  dishes, 
and  coming  out  triumphantly.  "  Only  I  say  if  a 
man  's  be'n  off  an'  spent  consid'able  in  bushes 
for  ye,  an'  then  took  four-five  hours  to  set  'em 
out,  you  might  say  you  're  obleeged  to  him." 

"The  tree  has  n't  started,"  said  Sylvia  irrele- 
vantly. Her  musing  gaze  was  upon  one  spot  in 
the  yard. 

"What  tree?"  asked  her  mother  perversely. 

"The  twisted  tree." 

When  it  had  become  apparent  in  Sylvia's  ill- 
ness that  her  mind  and  eyes  dwelt  altogether 


THE  TWISTED  TREE  251 

upon  the  twisted  tree  in  the  back  yard,  the  doc- 
tor had  advised  the  family  not  to  combat  her. 
Up  to  this  moment  Mrs.  Med  way  had  under- 
stood the  fiat  and  observed  it.  Now,  without 
warning,  she  lost  faith  in  it.  There  were  spring 
sounds  and  smells  out  of  doors,  and  all  day  long 
the  blackbirds  had  been  creaking  about  on  the 
wing,  like  machinery  scantily  oiled.  Perhaps  it 
was  because  the  earth-life  was  stirring;  but 
Mrs.  Med  way  grew  suddenly  impatient  of  illness 
and  the  restraints  that  hedged  its  borders.  She 
felt  for  the  moment  as  if  she  could  catch  Sylvia 
up  in  her  arms  and  run  with  her  to  some  heal- 
ing spring,  or  at  least  as  if  she  might  keep  her 
from  sitting  there  in  that  sad  docility,  staring 
at  a  tree.  -  She  stopped  before  the  girl,  a  pre- 
serve dish  in  her  hand. 

**Sylvy,"  she  said,  **you  make  me  as  nervous 
as  a  witch.  There  you  set  by  that  north  winder 
the  whole  'durin'  time.  It 's  'most  sunset.  You 
le'  me  move  your  chair  into  the  kitchen,  an'  you 
look  out  towards  the  west." 

Sylvia  did  not  answer. 

*'  Come,  dear,"  her  mother  urged,  with  a  rare 
tenderness.     "You  let  mother  take^he  chair." 

Then  the  girl's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

*'I  can't,  mother,"  she  said.  *'I've  got  to 
set  right  here." 

"'You   le'  me  put  my  arm  round  you,  an' 


252  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

kinder  carry  you  into  the  settin'-room,  Sylvy. 
You  look  once  out  o'  that  south  winder,  an' 
when  you  see  them  laylock  bushes,  an'  all,  an' 
think  how  good  Haven  's  be'n  to  ye,  an'  kind 
an'  thoughtful,  I  can't  help  feelin'  you  can  git 
along  without  that  twisted  tree." 

"No,  mother,"  said  Sylvia  gently.  *'You 
must  n't  ask  me." 

.  Mrs.  Medway  lost  the  hope  so  suddenly  at- 
tained. 

''Well!"  she  remarked  flatly,  and  went  down 
cellar  after  the  preserves. 

Presently  her  husband  came  in,  —  a  soft- 
spoken  man,  with  a  long  beard  and  mild  eyes,  — 
and  they  ate  their  supper.  Sylvia  had  hers  on 
a  little  table  by  the  window;  and  as  she  broke 
her  biscuit  delicately  and  without  interest  she 
looked  out,  from  time  to  time,  and  always  at  the 
twisted  tree. 

At  dusk,  when  Mrs.  Medway  was  in  the 
kitchen  washing  the  dishes,  and  her  husband  sat 
by  the  stove  in  his  worn  chair  and  talked  to  her, 
chiefly  through  unclassified  monosyllables  they 
both  understood.  Haven  came  in  at  the  door, 
and,  with  a  nod  at  them,  took  his  way,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  into  the  next  room.  Sylvia 
glanced  up  at  him,  and  smiled  briefly.  He 
looked  as  if  he  had  just  scrubbed  and  shaved, 
and  his  day  in  the  outer  air  had  left  him  glowing 


THE  TWISTED  TREE  253 

with  youth  and  comeliness.  He  was  an  earth 
creature,  all  brown  of  hair  and  skin,  and  with 
shy,  kind  eyes  and  a  swift  red  in  the  cheeks. 
He  walked  softly,  as  large  creatures  are  apt  to  do. 

"You  did  n't  look  out  to  see  the  bushes,  did 
you,  Sylvy.?"  he  asked,  almost  beseechingly. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  were  real  good  to  set  'em  out,"  she  told 
him  wanly. 

At  that  moment  her  mother  appeared  from 
the  kitchen,  rolling  down  her  sleeves. 

"Father  'n'  I  are  goin'  to  take  a  ride  down  the 
road  an'  find  out  about  them  seed  potaters,"  she 
said.  "  Haven,  you  keep  Sylvy  company  till  we 
come  back,  won't  ye.^" 

He  nodded  assuringly.  Mrs.  Medway  turned 
back,  as  she  was  leaving  the  room.  Her  face 
had  flushed  from  an  excess  of  resolution.  She 
spoke  with  a  hard  insistence  proportioned  to  the 
doubt  she  felt. 

"Haven,  you've  be'n  workin'  all  day  for 
Sylvy.  To-morrer  I  want  you  should  do  suthin' 
for  me." 

"I  '11  be  glad  to.  Mis'  Medway,"  he  answered 
honestly. 

"I  want,"  —  her  eyes  avoided  Sylvia,  and 
dwelt  upon  him  with  a  frightened  protest,  —  "I 
want  you  should  cut  down  that  tree  out  in  the 
back  yard." 


254  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

''Which  one?" 

'*The  twisted  tree,"  said  Mrs.  Medway,  and 
left  the  room. 

Sylvia  sat  quite  silent  while  her  mother  was 
moving  about  in  the  chamber  overhead  putting 
on  her  bonnet  and  shawl.  Then  Mrs.  Medway's 
steps  came  down  the  stairs,  the  door  closed  be- 
hind her,  and  the  horse's  hoofs  clattered  out  of 
the  barn  and  sounded  spongily  upon  the  drive. 
Sylvia  looked  up,  and  Haven  was  aware,  in  the 
gathering  dusk,  that  tears  were  running  down 
her  face. 

"Sylvy,  don't,"  he  cried.  "Don't  you  take 
on.     What  is  it,  Sylvy.?" 

She  began  speaking  wildly,  as  he  had  never 
heard  her.  It  moved  him  beyond  all  possible 
expression,  and  he  sat  and  gripped  his  hands  and 
listened. 

"They  want  to  cut  it  down.  They  think  it 's 
bad  for  me.  Maybe  it  '11  be  just  as  well. 
Twisted  things  like  that  better  be  cut  down, 
an'  have  an  end  of  'em." 

It  had  all  been  a  mystery  to  him  for  many 
months,  why  she  looked  at  the  tree,  and  at  no- 
thing else  with  any  willingness. 

"How  was  it,  Sylvy?"  he  asked,  to  begin 
speech  about  it.     *'What  happened  to  't.?" 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do,"  she  cried  pas- 
sionately, amid  her  sobs.      "'T  was  the  time 


THE  TWISTED  TREE  255 

the  old  henhouse  burned,  an'  much  as  ever  we 
saved  the  house  an'  barn.  'T  was  a  nice  round 
little  tree  —  nothin'  but  a  Bald'in;  but  father 
meant  to  have  it  grafted.  'T  was  goin'  to  be  a 
Hubbardston.  That 's  what  I  picked  out.  The 
fire  scorched  it  on  one  side,  an'  it  ain't  ever 
bore  any  since.     You  knew  that,  Haven." 

"Well,  yes,"  mused  Haven.  *'I  don't  know 
but  I  did." 

"  It 's  like  me,"  the  girl  burst  out.  "  It 's  just 
like  me.  I  'm  scorched  so  't  I  shan't  ever  be 
the  same  again.  Everybody  else  'round  here  's 
well  an'  strong,  all  except  the  tree  an'  me.  But 
you  can  cut  it  down,  if  you  want  to." 

"No,"  responded  Haven;  *'I  don't  know  's  I 
want  to."  He  sat  for  a  time  in  silence,  and  Sylvia 
dried  her  eyes.  He  had  never  seen  her  break  into 
emotion  in  all  these  months  of  wasting  illness, 
and  it  was  terrible  to  him.  Now  that  she  had 
begun,  it  seemed  easy  to  her  to  go  on.  She 
looked  at  him  recklessly.  A  red  of  excitement  had 
come  into  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  burned  hotly. 

"You  know  what 's  the  matter  of  me,  Ha- 
ven?" she  asked. 

He  answered  slowly: 

"No,  I  don't  know  's  I  do." 

"Yes,  you  do.  You  know.  Haven  Terrill.  I 
don't  know  whether  mother  does  or  not  —  or 
father.     I  'm   goin'   to   tell   you,   anyways.     I 


256  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

thought  I  was  goin'  to  be  married,  Haven. 
Then  —  he  got  tired  of  me."  Her  head  had 
sunk  until  her  chin  was  on  her  breast. 

He  could  not  answer. 

"I  won't  tell  you  his  name,"  she  faltered. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  would  n't" 

"That's  why"  —  her  voice  fell  lower  and 
lower,  in  little  gasps  born  agonizingly  —  "that 's 
why  I  am  sick,  an'  why  I  can't  eat  nor  sleep. 
They  think  I  've  gone  into  a  decline.  I  —  I 
kissed  him.  Haven,  an'  he  did  n't  care,  after  all. 
I  'm  all  twisted,  like  that  tree.  I  'm  all  burnt  an' 
scorched,  an'  there  's  the  end  of  it."  She  rocked 
back  and  forth  in  her  chair,  and  involuntarily  he 
put  out  his  hands  to  draw  her  toward  him. 

"Well,"  he  said,  at  last,  *'we  '11  see  what  we 
can  do  about  the  tree." 

It  was  a  wild  relief  now  to  unburden  herself. 

"I  can't  tell  you  anything  about  how  I  feel. 
It  ain't  that  I  want  him  back.  It 's  somethin' 
else.  I  want  to  be  as  I  was  before  I  ever  see 
him.     An'  I  can't!     I  can't!     I  can't!" 

"  Well,"  said  Haven  musingly.  He  sat  look- 
ing straight  before  him,  his  hands  on  his  knees. 
He  was  thinking.  "You  don't  feel's  if  you 
could  give  up  settin'  by  this  winder,  do  ye.^" 
he  hinted. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"To  please  your  mother,  mebbe?" 


THE  TWISTED  TREE  257 

"  Where  can  I  go  ?  "  she  burst  out  wildly.  "  If 
I  sit  in  the  kitchen  I  shall  see  his  house,  an'  if  I 
sit  in  the  front  room  I  shall  see  him  go  by.  This 
is  the  only  place  I  've  got,  Haven.  It 's  the  only 
place  I  'm  safe." 

"Mebbe  you  could  have  your  chair  moved 
up  to  that  south  winder  in  the  sittin'-room.?" 
he  pursued.  "You  could  see  the  laylocks 
when  they  bud  out.  You  try  it,  Sylvy.  Your 
mother  'd  be  proper  glad." 

Her  passion  had  deserted  her  as  quickly  as  it 
came.     She  looked  dispirited. 

"Maybe  I  will,"  she  said.  "Seems  as  if 
't  would  kill  me  ;  but  mother  's  gettin'  all  wore 
out  seein'  me  sit  here.     Maybe  I  will." 

"  I  kinder  want  you  to  see  the  laylocks,"  he 
soothed  her.  "  There  's  a  clump  o'  three,  an' 
then  one  syringa  by  itself.  I  like  a  great  syringa 
all  alone,  full  o'  bloom,  an'  bees  hummin'  over 
it.  Sylvy,"  his  voice  deepened  as  it  dropped, 
'*  I  've  set  out  much  as  a  dozen  over  to  the  old 
place." 

"Have  you?"  she  asked  indifferently. 

"All  them  old-fashioned  kinds  you  set  by, 
an'  thirty  fruit  trees  in  the  back  lot.  Mother 
walked  over  there  with  me,  t  'other  arternoon. 
'Haven,'  says  she,  *what  you  goin'  in  so  steep 
for  ?'  *  I  dunno',  mother,'  says  I;  *mebbe  along 
towards  fall  I  may  build.'  " 


25S  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

Sylvia  at  that  moment  began  to  look  a  little 
more  like  a  human  thing  and  less  like  a  wraith 
born  to  blight  and  pain.  A  delicate  flush  had 
crept  into  her  cheeks,  and  she  clasped  her  hands 
in  her  lap  and  then  loosed  them  willfully,  as  if 
their  tension  betrayed  something  that  must  not 
be  known. 

Haven  spoke  again,  and  with  a  deeper  shy- 
ness.    His  voice  thrilled  passionately. 

" '  Sylvy  sets  the  world  by  laylocks  an'  syrin- 
gas,'  I  says  to  mother.  *  Yes,'  says  she,  *  I  know 
she  does.'  " 

Sylvia  had  closed  her  eyes,  and  the  rose  in  her 
cheeks  had  faded. 

*'I'm  pretty  tired,"  she  said,  at  length. 
"  Maybe  I  '11  go  to  bed.  You  don't  care,  do 
you.?" 

"  No,  I'll  set  here  till  they  come  home.  Hark!" 

She  was  standing  in  a  drooping  grace,  one 
hand  upon  the  window-ledge.  Her  eyes  interro- 
gated him. 

*'Hark!"  he  said  again.  "Hear  the  frogs. 
Some  folks  think  it 's  mournful.  It 's  the  best 
kind  o'  music  to  me.  It 's  the  beginnin'  o'  the 
year." 

The  continuous  rhythm  of  spring  was  thrilling 
in  through  the  closed  window,  the  sound  of  little 
instruments  all  attuned  to  expectation  and  de- 
sire.    Suddenly  Sylvia  bent  her  head  upon  her 


THE  TWISTED  TREE  259 

hands  and  began  sobbing,  while  her  body  shook. 
Haven  had  risen,  and  he  stood  by  her  in  a  pite- 
ous distress,  saying  at  intervals: 

"  Don't  take  on,  Sylvy.     Don't  take  on." 

A  wave  of  her  new  outspokenness  had  over- 
taken her,  and  flung  her  toward  him  in  intem- 
perate confidence. 

"It  was  the  spring  o'  the  year  then,"  she 
whispered.  ''Everything  comes  in  the  spring  o' 
the  year,  trouble  an'  all.  I  heard  Lame  Lois 
say  that  once,  —  she  that  was  crazed,  —  an'  we 
used  to  run  over  from  school  an'  look  at  her 
where  she  sat  with  her  feet  in  the  ashes.  All  the 
sounds  are  awful  to  me.  Haven,  one  as  bad  as 
another.  Last  week  I  thought  the  frogs  were 
the  worst,  but  now  it 's  the  robins.  They  '11  be 
the  worst,  too.  I  s'pose  I  'm  crazed.  Haven, 
just  like  Lame  Lois.  She  was  love-cracked. 
So  am  I.  An'  I  'm  worse,  for  she  wanted  to  hide 
herself  away,  an',  now  I  've  begun  to  talk  to  you, 
I  see  I  ain't  got  any  shame."  She  lifted  her 
head  and  looked  at  him,  a  wild-eyed  creature 
with  sodden  cheeks  and  a  quivering  mouth. 
His  eyes  also  were  wet,  but  he  stretched  out  his 
hand  and  laid  it  on  her  chair. 

"  I  'm  goin'  to  take  this  into  t'  other  room," 
he  said,  **an'  set  it  by  the  south  winder.  Then 
when  you  come  down  in  the  mornin'  you  can 
slip  into  't,  an'  not  have  no  talk  about  it." 


260  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"  No,  no,"  she  besought  him,  "  I  don't  believe 
I  can." 

But  he  had  lifted  the  chair,  and  was  carrying 
it  over  the  sill. 

"There!"  he  called  to  her  from  the  next 
room,  "when  you  git  up  in  the  mornin',  you  run 
right  down  the  front  stairs,  an'  se'  down  here, 
an'  cast  your  eyes  over  the  laylocks  an'  that  nice 
syringa." 

Sylvia  caught  her  breath  in  dying  sobs,  but 
when  he  came  back,  talking  about  plants  and 
the  kindliness  of  a  south  exposure,  and  wonder- 
ing when  her  father  and  mother  would  be  home, 
she  was  ashamed  of  her  emotion,  and  bade  him 
a  shy  good-night  and  went  upstairs.  Haven 
stood  listening  until  her  hesitating  step  had 
reached  the  upper  floor;  then  he  sat  down  by 
the  window  and  looked  through  the  dusk  at 
the  twisted  tree.  By  and  by  the  wagon  drove 
into  the  yard,  and  Mrs.  Med  way,  leaving  her 
husband  to  unharness,  came  in,  all  redoubled 
cheer  and  freshness,  from  the  damp  spring 
air. 

"Where  's  Sylvy  ?"  she  inquired,  throwing  off 
her  shawl. 

Haven  had  risen. 

"  She  's  gone  to  bed,"  he  answered.  *'  I  guess 
she  was  pretty  tired.  See  here.  Mis'  Med  way, 
don't  you   speak  to  her  no  more  about  that 


THE  TWISTED  TREE  261 

twisted  tree,  nor  don't  you  let  nobody  else.  It 
ain't  best." 

Mrs.  Med  way  was  folding  up  her  shawl. 

*' Well,"  she  answered,  frowning  over  the  pin 
in  her  mouth,  *'so  doctor  said.  I  dunno'  's 
't  was  exactly  right  to  bring  it  in,  but  my  tongue 
got  ahead  o'  me.  For  mercy  sake !  where  's 
Sylvy's  chair.?" 

"  It 's  in  t'  other  room.  I  carried  it  in  by  the 
south  winder.  To-morrer  she  's  goin'  to  try  to 
set  there.     An'  don't  you  speak  o'  that,  neither." 

He  towered  there,  still  and  tall,  the  man  in 
authority,  and  Mrs.  Medway  looked  up  at  him 
in  a  puzzled  acquiescence. 

**  Well ! "  she  remarked,  from  the  depths  of  her 
perplexity;  but  when  he  had  said  good-night 
and  shut  the  outer  door  behind  him,  she  sped 
after  him  a  step.  ^*  Haven,"  she  called,  *'you  're 
real  good." 

The  next  morning  Sylvia  came  downstairs 
earlier  than  usual.  Her  mother  heard  her  light, 
hesitating  step  in  the  sitting-room,  and  presently 
bustled  in  with  a  breakfast  tray.  Sylvia  sat  by 
the  south  window,  but  she  was  not  looking  out. 
Her  head  was  bent  so  that  her  eyes  rested  on  the 
clasped  hands  in  her  lap,  and  there  were  tears 
upon  her  cheeks.  Her  mother  did  remorseful, 
tender  things  about  her,  and  then,  as  the  girl 
could  not  eat,  hesitated  there  beside  her. 


262  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"You  want  to  go  back,  Sylyy?"  she  asked 
compassionately.  "  You  want  to  set  by  the  north 
winder  ?     Mother  'U  move  your  chair  for  you." 

Sylvia  shook  her  head,  and  by  and  by  she  ate 
a  little  bread  and  milk,  and  after  that  closed  her 
eyes  and  seemed  to  withdraw  into  some  solitude 
of  her  own.  Haven  went  past  the  window  and 
smiled  at  her.  She  had  waked  at  the  sound  of 
his  step,  and  she  returned  his  smile  wanly.  But 
he  did  not  come  in. 

*' Mother,"  she  called  presently,  "is  Haven 
out  there  in  the  yard?" 

"I  guess  so." 

"Don't  you  see  him  .^" 

"Why,  yes,  Sylvy,  I  s'pose  I  see  him." 

"What's  he  doin'.?" 

"Well" — her  mother  hesitated.  Then  she 
added  in  some  confusion, ''  I  guess  he  's  goin'  to 
do  suthin'  to  that  old  tree  in  the  yard." 

Sylvia  bowed  her  head  as  if  a  wind  had  struck 
her.  It  was  impossible  to  think  Haven  could 
cut  down  the  twisted  tree.  But  if  it  must  hap- 
pen, at  least  she  need  not  hear  the  blows.  She 
put  her  hands  to  her  ears;  and  when  she  took 
them  away  her  mother  was  standing  by  her, 
looking  sorrowful,  and  Haven  had  gone  home. 
She  asked  no  more  questions ;  but  she  crouched 
all  day  by  the  south  window,  and  ached  over 
her  lost  tree. 


THE  TWISTED  TREE  263 

The  south  window  was  a  large  one,  built  for 
the  plants  in  winter;  and  as  Sylvia  sat  there,  day 
by  day,  the  sun  poured  on  her  in  a  flood.  It 
made  her  feel  as  if  the  world  were  very  large, 
with  no  cool  corners  in  it.  One  morning,  be- 
cause Haven  asked  her,  in  his  slow,  kind  fashion, 
she  did  look  at  the  budding  lilac  bushes;  and 
that  was  the  very  moment  that  her  mother  called 
from  the  kitchen: 

*'  Sylvy,  you  glance  out  an'  see  Lorin'  Pratt. 
Who  's  that  he'  s  got  with  him?" 

Sylvia  started  back,  and  gasped  with  the  sur- 
prise of  it.  The  color  rushed  into  her  face,  as  if 
a  hand  had  smitten  her.  The  window  was  wide 
open,  and  a  warm  breeze  was  coming  in.  She 
heard  the  quick  beat  of  the  horse's  hoofs  on  the 
road,  but  she  could  not  look.  Haven's  voice, 
with  that  note  of  calm  in  it,  came  from  the  other 
side  of  the  window,  where  he  stood  on  the 
springing  grass. 

*'It's  nobody  but  old  Aunt  Nancy.  She's 
goin'  to  stay  a  spell." 

Sylvia  felt  the  generous  kindliness  of  his  tone. 
It  was  as  if  he  begged  her  to  be  comforted,  re- 
membering that,  if  Loring  had  cast  her  off,  at 
least  her  place  had  not  been  taken  by  another 
girl.  She  tried  to  thank  him,  and,  as  that  was  im- 
possible, she  looked  at  the  lilacs  again,  and  told 
him  he  had  set  them  in  exactly  the  right  place. 


264  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

It  was  the  next  week  that,  as  she  sat  there  by 
the  open  window,  a  shadow  fell  upon  her  closed 
eyelids,  and  she  opened  them,  smiling  a  little, 
knowing  who  had  come.  But  it  was  not  Haven. 
Loring  Pratt  himself  stood  there,  a  little  flushed 
with  the  awkwardness  of  meeting,  yet  vividly 
excited  in  a  way  she  knew.  This  was  the  look 
in  his  eyes  when  he  had  told  her,  in  old  days, 
how  pretty  she  was,  and  planned  their  life  to- 
gether. Loring  was  a  handsome  creature,  of  a 
gypsy  cast,  with  a  swarthy  skin  and  dark,  soft 
hair.  To-day  he  had  been  hurrying,  and  a  deep 
red  had  settled  in  his  cheeks.  Sylvia  could  not 
take  her  eyes  away.  She  looked  at  him  curi- 
ously, as  if  he  had  once  been  familiar  to  her,  and 
now  the  sight  of  him  gave  her  a  vague  pain  that 
she  could  neither  conquer  nor  resist. 

"Sylvy!"  he  hesitated.  **Sylvy!"  Then  he 
added,  ''You  better,  Sylvy .?" 

Her  lips  parted  slightly,  as  if  for  breath ;  but 
it  was  an  instant  before  she  could  answer,  and 
then  almost  inaudibly: 

"I  guess  so." 

"Mother  said  you  was  in  a  decline,"  he  went 
on  eagerly,  in  the  manner  of  those  who,  because 
they  have  begun  speaking,  rush  on  and  say  what 
they  would  not.  "She  said  you  set  there  by 
the  north  winder,  lookin'  out  into  the  yard,  an' 
would  n't  see  nobody.     But  t'  other  day  I  was 


THE  TWISTED  TREE  265 

goin'  by,  an'  I  see  you  by  this  winder,  an'  —  so  I 
come  over,  Sylvy." 

His  voice  had  softened  wonderfully.  That 
note,  also,  she  knew.  A  strange  triumph  swelled 
within  her.  The  outward  effect  of  it  was  im- 
mediately upon  her  like  a  wreath  of  loveliness, 
and  he  saw  it.  Her  eyes  had  brightened  into 
liquid  glory.  Her  head  lifted,  and  the  red 
poured  into  her  cheeks. 

"Sylvy,"  he  said,  with  the  beseeching  of  a 
lover,  "  I  '11  come  'round  this  afternoon.  We  '11 
go  to  ride."  But  his  glance  followed  hers  over 
his  shoulder  to  the  road.  "  Who  you  lookin'  at  ?" 
he  asked. 

Haven  was  going  by  with  a  basket  of  plants, 
their  green  tops  showing  above  the  brim.  She 
knew  what  they  were,  —  larkspur  and  monks- 
hood from  his  mother's  garden,  to  set  out  at  the 
old  place  where  he  meant  to  build.  Involun- 
tarily she  leaned  forward  in  her  chair  and  waved 
her  hand  at  him;  but  Haven  only  nodded  and 
strode  on.  She  thought  his  shoulders  settled 
together  a  little,  as  if  he  were  tired,  though  the 
basket,  she  knew,  was  light  for  strength  like  his. 
Loring  laughed. 

**You  can't  stop  him  when  he  's  got  any  kind 
of  a  withe  to  set  out,"  he  said.  "  He  's  as  crazy 's 
a  loon  over  anything  that 's  got  leaves  to  it. 
Why,  the  day  he  grafted  that  old  tree  in  your 


266  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

yard,  I  wanted  him  to  go  to  stockholders' 
meetin'  on  some  stock  I  had,  but  he  would  n't 
hear  to  't." 

"What  tree?"  Sylvia  was  sitting  straight  in 
her  chair,  gazing  at  him. 

**Why,  that  tree  in  your  back  yard,  the  old 
twisted  tree.  I  told  him  he  's  a  fool  to  tackle  it. 
When  a  thing  's  gone,  it 's  gone." 

Sylvia  was  on  her  feet.  She  stood  superbly, 
like  a  lithe  goddess. 

*'  I  'm  much  obliged,  Loring,"  she  said,  in  a 
clear  voice.  "  No,  I  can't  go  to  ride.  I  'm  too 
busy."  She  left  him  standing  there,  and  walked 
out  through  the  kitchen,  where  her  mother  was 
beating  eggs,  and  into  the  back  yard.  There 
was  her  tree,  strangely  altered  and  yet  familiar. 
The  top  had  been  cut  off,  and  new  grafts  were 
in  it.  At  its  foot  the  land  had  been  spaded  up 
in  a  great  circling  space.  She  smelled  the  earth 
and  the  enrichment  of  it,  and  life  was  good  to 
her. 

"Law,  Sylvy,  what  you  doin' .?"  called  her 
mother  from  the  doorway. 

Sylvia  turned  about  and  walked  back  to  the 
house. 

"Give  me  them  eggs,  mother,"  she  said 
calmly.     "  I  '11  beat  'em  for  you." 

Haven  was  at  the  old  place  all  day.  He  had 
his  dinner  there  with  Aunt  Betsy  next  door,  and 


THE  TWISTED  TREE  267 

came  home  at  dusk,  his  feet  dragging  a  little 
with  the  weariness  of  an  accepted  loss.  He  did 
not  look  up  at  Sylvia's  window,  but  Sylvia  her- 
self, a  shawl  about  her,  stood  at  the  gate.  He 
saw  her  and  stopped,  staring  as  if  she  had 
been  a  ghost.  She  was  the  Sylvia  he  had  been 
used  to  know,  sweet- colored,  and  all  a  wistful 
pathos  that  was  not  grief,  but  youth. 

'*Haven,"  she  called,  her  voice  vibrating  in 
some  mysterious  accord  with  the  spring  twilight, 
*'what  made  you  graft  my  tree  .^" 

He  took  off  his  hat,  and  passed  a  hand  wearily 
over  his  forehead. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  smiling  faintly,  *'I  thought 
we  might  as  well  give  it  a  chance." 

"Do  you  think  the  grafts  '11  live  ?*^  she  asked 
breathlessly,  like  one  who  had  news  to  tell. 

"  Oh,  yes ! "  he  answered.  "  I  know  they  will." 
He  gave  her  a  little  good-night  nod,  and  was 
moving  on;  but  she  called  to  him. 

"Haven,  I  've  seen  him.     It 's  all  right." 

He  paused  then,  and  looked  down  through  the 
dusk  at  the  ground. 

*'I  know  it,"  he  said  presently.  "I  see  ye 
there.  I  thought  maybe 't  was  goin'  to  be  —  all 
right." 

"No!  no!" — she  stretched  a  swift  hand  to 
him  across  the  fence,  and  then  withdrew  it. 
"  It 's  just  as  if  he  was  a  stranger.     When  I 


268  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

looked  at  him  —  an'  see  you  goin'  by  —  an'  you 
grafted  my  tree  an'  all — O  Haven,  somethin  's 
come  back  to  me.     I  'm  goin'  to  live." 

He  stooped  to  her  then,  and  she  put  up 
her  lips,  cool  with  the  sweet  spring  air,  and 
kissed  him. 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS 

DoRiNDA  Lake  stood  before  her  glass  in  the  sit- 
ting-room and  tied  a  blue  ribbon  at  her  throat, 
singing  as  she  did  it.  She  loved  this  glass,  with 
its  gilded  basket  of  fruit  and  the  peacock  fea- 
thers above,  because  it  held  a  flood  of  sunlight, 
and  reminded  her  anew  how  well  her  beauty 
could  bear  it.  After  the  ribbon  was  tied  she  laid 
her  hands  on  the  table  in  front  of  her,  and  bent 
forward,  smiling  into  the  glass  with  a  gay  recog- 
nition. The  girl  she  saw  there,  crisp  in  muslin, 
was  untouched,  like  the  morning,  and,  like  the 
morning,  lovely.  Her  cheeks  had  the  inexpres- 
sible freshness  of  rose  petals,  her  hair  was  flood- 
ing gold  bound  about  her  head  in  fine-spun  coils. 
Her  eyes  —  the  old  simile  of  violets  failed  here, 
even  of  violets  wet  with  dew,  for  they  had  depth 
as  well  as  lustre.  At  this  moment  they  were 
dark  with  pleasure,  a  pleasure  in  themselves. 
As  she  looked,  there  was  a  thudding  step  at  the 
door,  and  Aunt  Dorindy  came  looming  through 
the  entry.  She  moved  like  a  heavy  craft,  pitch- 
ing a  little  from  unf avoring  seas ;  then  she  stood 
there  a  moment  to  recover  her  balance  before 
making  another  essay.     She  was  no  taller  than 


%1%  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

Dorinda,  but  her  breadth  outran  proportion. 
She  had  the  quivering  bulk  of  excessive  flesh, 
and  her  double  chin  hung  in  a  shining  fold.  The 
faded  blue  eyes  were  merry,  and  neighboring  the 
good,  motherly  mouth  lurked  a  dimple  or  two. 
She  gave  a  little  unctuous  laugh,  which  seemed 
to  have  resided  no  lower  than  her  throat. 

*'  The  land,  Dorindy !"  said  she, "  you  standin' 
there  worshipin'  your  good  looks  .^  I  don't 
blame  ye.  I  've  done  it  myself,  more  'n  once, 
times  gone  by." 

Dorinda  blushed,  and  made  herself  the  pret- 
tier. She  had  been  worshiping  the  works  of 
the  Lord  in  herself,  and  she  was  fairly  caught. 
But  looking  at  Aunt  Dorindy,  seated  now  by  the 
window  in  the  big  rocking-chair,  she  smiled.  It 
occurred  to  her  for  the  first  time  that  this  older 
woman  had  once  been  young,  and  that  the  hues 
of  springtime  had  lain  upon  her  also  like  a  veil. 

"You  come  here  a  minute,"  said  Aunt  Do- 
rindy suddenly,  pitching  to  her  feet.  "Stan' 
right  where  ye  be.  Now  turn  'round.  I  want 
to  measure."  She  backed  about  ponderously, 
and,  when  they  were  matched,  put  up  a  hand 
to  find  the  level  of  their  heads.  "Jest  as  I 
thought,"  said  she.  "  We  're  the  same  height. 
I  knew  we  were."  She  sank  into  her  chair 
again,  and  kept  a  swaying  rhythm  while  she 
talked.     Young  Dorinda  meantime  sat  down 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  273 

by  one  of  the  front  windows,  and  began  bind- 
ing shoes. 

''  We  're  the  same  height  to  an  inch,"  said 
Aunt  Dorindy.  *'I'm  a  leetle  heavier,  but  I 
started  with  the  same  kind  of  a  figger  you  've 
got.  You  jest  reflect  on  it,  Dorindy.  Forty 
years  ago  I  looked  for  all  the  world  jest  as  you  're 
lookin'  now.  In  forty  years'  time  you  '11  be 
lookin'  jest  like  me.    Don't  this  world  beat  all  .^  " 

Dorinda  laid  down  her  work  for  a  moment, 
and  stared  at  her  in  an  irrepressible  wonder. 
She  had  never  thought  of  youth,  save  as  it  be- 
longed to  her  inalienably,  or  of  age,  the  strange 
decaying  state  presaging  death.  But  at  that 
moment,  as  if  a  rough  hand  tore  the  comfortable 
film  wherein  she  lived,  she  saw  a  brutal  truth. 
Aunt  Dorindy  was  right;  they  were  alike.  She 
met  in  the  other  woman  an  overgrown  carica- 
ture of  herself,  and  the  prophecy  appalled  her. 

*' Aunt  Dorindy,"  she  said,  with  the  directness 
of  a  child,  "do  I  look  like  you  ?     Do  I .?" 

Aunt  Dorindy  was  fanning  herself  with  her 
sunbonnet,  ingeniously  disposed.  She  yielded 
herself  now  to  reminiscence. 

"  I  guess  you  do !  Your  mother  see  it  when 
you  wa'n't  more  'n  a  week  old.  *  Dorindy,' 
says  she,  *this  child  favors  you.  Same  colorin', 
same  everything.'" 

"Was  that  why  I  was  named  for  you .?" 


274  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"  Yes,  I  guess  as  much  that 's  anything. 
Mebbe  they  would  anyway.  Well,  you  were  as 
likely  a  leetle  creatur'  as  ever  I  see.  Some  folks 
say  pretty  young  ones  grow  up  homely;  but  you 
were  pretty  all  through.  I  was  married  when  I 
was  your  age.  I  wore  a  white  spotted  muslin, 
an'  when  I  come  in  jest  now  you  give  me  a  kind 
of  a  turn.  I  '11  be  whipped  if  I  should  ha' 
known  the  difference." 

"Yes,"  said  Dorinda,  absently;  *'yes.  Aunt 
Dorindy." 

''Well,  I  guess  I'll  be  gittin'  along  home," 
said  Aunt  Dorindy,  rising.  *'  I  only  stepped  in  a 
minute  in  passin'.  I  be'n  down  to  the  Talbots'. 
Old  Mis'  Talbot 's  on  her  high  hoss  to-day. 
Wanted  to  know  if  you  knew  how  to  make  a 
batch  o'  bread.  *Law,'  says  I, 'don't  talk  that 
way!  Ain't  she  lived  alone  ever  sence  her 
mother  died  ?  Do  you  s'pose  she  eats  baker  's 
stuff  an'  sweet  trade  ?  She  's  as  good  a  house- 
keeper as  ever  I  see.  Don't  you  worry,'  says  I. 
'  Martin  ain't  made  no  mistake.'  She  's  terrible 
tried  because  you  bind  shoes,  an'  put  all  the 
money  onto  your  back.  Seems  as  if  you  did 
spend  a  good  deal  that  way,  Dorindy." 

*'  It 's  my  own  money,"  said  Dorinda  hotly. 
"I  like  to  look  nice."  A  blush  engulfed  her. 
She  was  thinking  of  a  day  two  years  ago  when, 
in  this  very  room,  Martin  Talbot  had  told  her 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  275 

she  was  the  prettiest  thing  God  ever  made,  and 
so  stamped  her  beauty  with  a  new  significance. 

'*Well!  well!"  said  Aunt  Dorindy  comfort- 
ably, "I  dunno'  's  I  blame  ye.  Say,  Dorindy, 
when  you  an'  Martin  goin'  to  be  married  ?" 

Dorinda  rose,  and  dropped  her  work  on  the 
table.  She  wore  a  look  of  haughtiness,  but  that 
was  only  because  the  question  stirred  her,  and 
she  charged  herself  to  seem  unmoved. 

**  We  have  n't  made  up  our  minds,"  said  she. 

*'  I  hate  this  everlastin'  hangin'  on,"  continued 
Aunt  Dorindy  ruthlessly.  *' Young  folks  think 
life  's  terrible  long.  It  ain't.  It 's  short.  It 
don't  seem  more  'n  yesterday  I  walked  out  a 
bride,  an'  here  I  be  with  the  spring  halt,  an' 
I  dunno'  what  all.  Live  while  ye  can!  Live 
while  ye  can!" 

She  moved  out,  a  ponderous  figure  under  the 
cape  of  her  great  sunbonnet,  and  Dorinda  looked 
after  her  with  the  distaste  springing  from  a  pre- 
monition of  the  sorry  jokes  life  is  capable  of 
playing.  The  blossomy  day  was  hurt.  Some 
taint  of  mortality  had  crept  into  it.  Involuntarily 
she  shrank  back  to  the  mirror  to  face  inexorable 
change;  but  one  glance  summoned  her  young 
bravado.  She  was  a  little  paler  than  in  the 
care-free  moment  gone,  but  that  was  all.  Youth 
sprang  up,  like  a  challenging  knight,  and  cleared 
the  lists  of  doubt.     She  smiled  into  her  own  face. 


276  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

and  at  that  instant  the  gate  clanged,  and  she 
heard  Martin's  hurrying  step  along  the  walk. 
The  scarlet  flushed  into  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes 
widened.  In  the  untroubled  estate  of  their 
courtship  the  outward  calmness  had  all  been 
hers;  but  now  she  met  him  with  outstretched 
hands.  She  seemed  a  woman,  not  a  girl :  a  wife 
who  welcomed  love  she  knew  by  heart. 

''Martin!  Martin!"  she  whispered. 

He  was  taller  than  she,  and  his  brown  face 
showed  marks  of  patience  threading  its  great 
kindliness.  He  thought  he  knew  Dorinda  well, 
yet  at  that  moment  she  seemed  to  envelop  them 
both  in  the  veil  of  a  marvel  making  all  things 
new.  He  drew  her  to  him,  hands  and  mouth. 
A  second,  and  she  swayed  back  again,  and, 
flooded  in  her  blushes,  retreated  from  him.  She 
laughed  a  little,  and  put  up  her  hands  to  her 
shining  hair. 

"No,"  she  said,  "no!  "  when  he  would  have 
touched  her.     "Aunt  Dorindy  's  just  gone  out." 

That  seemed  to  be  no  reason  why  a  man 
should  not  kiss  his  sweetheart,  but  it  served. 
Martin,  confronted  with  the  vision  of  Aunt  Do- 
rindy, also  laughed  a  little.  But  the  spell  of  the 
moment  was  still  upon  them,  and  Dorinda  asked 
him,  in  spite  of  herself: 

"Martin,  do  you  like  me.^" 

"Like  you ! "     He  was  silent,  looking  down  at 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  277 

his  hands.  They  were  ready  to  work  for  her 
and  fight  for  her,  those  brown  hands.  The 
blood  in  them  answered  when  she  breathed 
upon  them. 

A  shade  of  thought  lay  upon  her  face,  and 
veiled  its  radiance.  She  hesitated  a  little  in  her 
speech. 

"  Do  you  think  I  'm  —  pretty  ?" 

"  I  think  you  're  the  prettiest  creatur'  God 
Almighty  ever  made." 

She  thought  of  Aunt  Dorindy  and  the  dark 
coverts  of  sixty  years,  and  dared  her  test. 
''  Should  you  like  me  if  I  was  n't  pretty  at  all  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  man,  "  no,  I  guess  not.  I  like 
you  jest  as  you  are." 

As  he  looked  at  her,  in  his  adoring  madness, 
he  could  not  conceive  of  her  as  changed.  If  his 
halting  mind  had  been  hunted  into  corners  with 
more  questioning,  he  must  have  said  that  time 
and  loss  had  power  over  maids  and  men  alike; 
yet  he  would  have  owned  it  simply,  not  defying 
them,  but  childlike  in  his  ignorance  that  such 
things  mattered.  Whatever  she  might  be,  she 
was  Dorinda. 

The  words  had  stung  her,  and  she  started,  but 
a  step  brought  her  in  front  of  the  glass ;  the  pic- 
tured eyes  met  hers  again,  and  her  head  went  up 
triumphantly.  She  could  dare  her  destiny.  Life 
scoffed  at  Aunt  Dorindy. 


278  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

Martin  moved  toward  her  in  his  big,  soft 
way,  and  laid  a  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

"Dorinda,"  said  he,  *'I  guess  we  might  be 
married  in  the  fall."  There  was  a  still  solem- 
nity about  him ;  it  moved  Dorinda  greatly.  At 
such  moments  he  seemed  to  be  hers,  and  yet  set 
apart  from  her  in  a  strange  inviolability.  "I 
spoke  to  mother  again.  We  had  quite  a  talk  last 
night.     I  guess  I  did  most  o'  the  talkin'." 

"What  did  she  say.?" 

"  She  had  a  kind  of  a  faintin'  spell,  but  she 
come  out  of  it  quicker  'n  usual.  She  's  all  right 
to-day." 

"Did  n't  she  say  what  she  thought?" 

*'No,  not  really." 

"She  said  something!  Martin  Talbot,  you 
tell  me  what  it  was." 

He  laughed  a  little,  as  if  he  passed  the  matter 

by. 

"  Why,  't  was  no  great  matter.  Fact  is,  mo- 
ther thinks  you  set  by  dress,  an'  not  much  else. 
She  thinks  you  're  no  kind  of  a  housekeeper.  I 
told  her  she  'd  find  out.  I  told  her  she  'd  ha' 
found  out  long  before  if  she  'd  only  come  up  here* 
to  tea."  He  looked  at  her  in  happy  pride,  the 
triumph  of  the  man  who  trusts  his  mate. 

Dorinda  had  no  resentments  where  his  mother 
was  concerned. 

"You  tell  her,  Martin,"  she  began.     "No, 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  279 

don't  you  tell  her  anything.  But  I  guess  you 
ain't  afraid." 

They  stood  there  in  the  sweet  spring  weather, 
and  talked  a  little  in  the  indeterminate  snatches 
of  youth,  the  broken  words  helped  out  by  keen 
f or eshado wings.  Martin  recalled  himself  first, 
or  the  old  clock  roused  him  with  its  stroke  of 
noon.  He  turned  to  its  dial,  and  found  there 
some  reproach. 

"  Gee !"  said  he, ''  I  've  got  to  go.  I  promised 
mother  I  'd  be  home  by  'leven  to  dig  'round  the 
sage  an' wormwood.  Well!"  The  word  held 
a  meaning  not  quite  clear  to  him,  yet  strong 
enough  to  stir  his  pulses.  It  was  born  of  the 
certainty  that  before  snow  fell  it  would  be  his 
wife  to  whom  he  went  home  at  noon.  He  parted 
from  Dorinda  with  a  sober  kiss,  and  when  she 
had  watched  him  down  the  garden  walk,  she  sat 
still  for  an  hour's  luxurious  dreaming,  regardless 
of  her  dinner  and  the  crisp  dandelions  ready  to 
be  boiled.  They  must  wait  for  supper  time; 
bread  and  milk  were  quite  enough  for  her  this 
noon.  She  was  very  happy.  Life  stretched  before 
her  in  an  endless  way,  all  sunshine  and  spring 
weather.     She  had  forgotten  Aunt  Dorindy. 

But  Martin's  mother  could  not  be  forgotten. 
There  was  something  of  the  child  in  Dorinda  to 
feel  a  pang  of  grief  because  old  lady  Talbot 
would  not  quite  accept  her.     She  must  become 


280  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

Martin's  wife  on  sufferance,  and  afterwards  win 
her  way  by  thrift  and  homely  zeal.  Was  it  pos- 
sible she  spent  too  much  on  dress  ?  Aunt  Do- 
rindy's  clumsy  shaft  had  hurt;  yet,  looking  down 
on  the  sprigged  muslin,  her  lips  curved  into  a 
smile.  It  was  too  pretty  for  any  woman  really 
to  decry  it  in  her  heart.  So  she  ate  her  dinner 
in  a  happy  dream,  and  sang  while  she  set  the 
things  away.  In  the  pantry  a  thought  came 
tapping  at  her  elbow,  and  she  laughed.  There 
sat  a  round  sponge  cake,  baked  that  morning  in 
the  scalloped  pan  with  a  hole  in  the  middle.  It 
was  a  perfect  cake,  risen  to  the  highest  point  of 
excellence,  the  crust  dotted  with  candied  freckles. 
Dorinda  was  afraid  of  old  lady  Talbot;  but  surely 
the  cake  would  speak  for  her.  She  set  it  in  a 
large  sprigged  plate  from  the  parlor  cupboard, 
and  laid  a  glossy  napkin  over  it.  Then  she 
settled  the  blue  ribbon  at  her  throat,  and  went 
bareheaded  into  the  road,  carrying  the  plate  be- 
fore her  as  if  it  held  some  sacrificial  emblem,  and 
she  were  the  moment's  chosen  ministrant.  Little 
flecks  of  shadow  danced  over  the  ground  from 
budding  leaves,  and  a  light  wind  came  up  in  a 
whiff  to  make  them  move  the  faster.  All  the 
touches  of  nature  held  a  mystery  that  day. 
Dorinda's  face  wore  a  look  of  serious  calm,  as  if 
wifehood  and  motherhood  stirred  within  her, 
unrecognized,  yet  potent.     So  she  went  along 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  281 

the  country  road,  and  up  the  path  to  Martin 
Talbot's  house,  and  there  she  heard  a  woman 
crying.  Old  lady  Talbot  was  having  a  '*  spell." 
Dorinda  stood  there  by  the  sweet  clove  bush  at 
the  corner  of  the  house,  and  waited.  Her  hands 
were  eager  with  desire  of  service.  If  Martin 
were  away,  perhaps  she  might  go  in.  But  Mar- 
tin was  there.  The  old  woman's  voice,  fierce 
with  a  nervous  agony,  besought  him: 

"Martin,  don't  you  marry  her.  Martin,  don't 
you  do  it.  You  tell  me  now  you  won't.  You 
promise  me." 

Martin's  voice  broke  soothingly  on  hers : 

"  There,  there,  mother !  Don't  you  mind. 
There!  there!" 

"She's  a  pink  an'  white  flippertigibbet ! 
She  's  dead  in  love  with  her  own  face!"  shrieked 
the  old  woman.  "Look  at  them  blue  ribbins 
she  ties  on.  Pink  one  day,  an'  blue  the  next! 
She  looks  like  a  doll.  If  you  'd  ha'  picked  out 
a  good,  sensible  girl  with  suthin'  to  her,  I 
would  n't  ha'  cared.  You  promise  you  won't 
have  her." 

"Mother!  mother!"  entreated  Martin. 

"You  promise  me!  O  Martin,  my  heart!  I  'm 
scairt.    Oh,  my  heart!    Oh,  you  promise  me!" 

"Yes,  mother,  yes,  I  '11  promise,"  groaned  the 
man.  He  was  dropping  medicine  with  a  trem- 
bling hand,  when  a  quick  step  sounded  on  the 


282  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

kitchen  floor.  It  was  Dorinda.  She  held  the 
plate  before  her  with  a  mechanical  care,  but  she 
had  forgotten  it.  Her  blue  eyes  were  dulled. 
Her  cheeks  looked  faded.  But  her  voice  held 
firm. 

''You  need  n't  take  it  out  of  Martin  that 
way,  Mrs.  Talbot,"  said  she,  with  an  imperative 
clearness.  "  He  don't  need  to  promise.  I  '11 
promise  for  him.  I  won't  marry  him.  You 
need  n't  mind  about  my  face.  I  guess  it  '11 
fade  fast  enough.  You  need  n't  mind  about  my 
clothes,  either.  I  shan't  spend  any  more  on 
clothes.  Good-by,  Martin.  It 's  over.  Good- 
by."  She  walked  out  of  the  room  while  he  was 
holding  the  cup  to  his  mother's  lips,  and  went, 
in  some  poor  panoply  of  pride,  back  through  the 
smiling  day  to  her  own  house. 

All  that  afternoon  Mrs.  Talbot  lay  quite  still, 
and  Martin,  after  he  had  sent  the  hired  man  for 
the  doctor,  sat  beside  her.  He  thought  she  was 
nearer  death  than  she  had  been  before;  but, 
though  her  heart  beat  low,  Mrs.  Talbot  was 
thinking  very  little  about  that.  She  was  won- 
dering what  she  had  done,  and  counseling  her- 
self not  to  be  glad  too  soon. 

Dorinda  walked  into  her  own  silent  house, 
and  set  the  cake  back  on  the  pantry  shelf.  It 
was  all  over.  She  knew  it  from  some  inner  con- 
viction rather  than  the  facts  themselves.     Life, 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  283 

too,  was  over,  as  she  conceived  it.  A  curious 
scorn  of  herself  was  reigning  in  her,  since  women 
who  are  slighted  slight  themselves.  Her  ill  luck 
seemed  to  go  back  to  her  pink  and  white  face. 
If  it  had  been  ugly,  she  might  not  have  been 
condemned. 

''Well,"  she  said  aloud,  *'it '11  fade  fast 
enough.   She  need  n't  worry  herself.   It  '11  fade." 

And  she  wished  it.  She  longed  to  be  old  and 
ugly,  like  Aunt  Dorindy,  and  so  the  nearer  to 
her  journey's  end.  But  though  her  loveliness 
must  go,  she  could  not  bear  to  stand  by  at  such 
a  death;  and  with  a  sudden  purpose  she  went 
up  to  the  mirror,  and  sought  herself  once  more. 
The  face  she  saw  there  was  wan  with  grief,  with- 
out, as  yet,  any  of  grief's  veiling  beauty.  The 
lightning  stroke  of  life  had  smitten  it.  Dorinda 
looked  into  the  flower-blue  eyes.  **Good-by," 
said  she,  to  something  precious.     **Good-by.'* 

She  took  the  looking-glass  from  its  nail  and 
carried  it  up  into  the  attic.  There  she  set  it 
under  the  rafters,  its  face  turned  toward  the 
wall.  After  that  she  went  through  the  house  in 
haste,  collecting  all  the  other  glasses,  to  pile 
them  there  beside  it.  Then  she  went  down 
calmly  to  her  work,  and  to  grow  old  like  Aunt 
Dorindy. 

Next  day  at  dusk  Aunt  Dorindy  came  stum- 
bling over. 


284  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"The  land,  Dorindy!"  said  she,  entering  the' 
sitting-room,  "you  ain't  be'n  an'  broke  that  old 
glass?" 

Dorinda  was  sitting  by  the  window,  sewing 
fast.  She  looked  up  and  smiled.  There  were 
brilliant  spots  of  color  in  her  cheeks,  and  her 
voice  rang  hard.  "  I  guess  I  cracked  it,  lookin' 
so,"  she  said.     '*I  carried  it  off  upstairs." 

'*  Why  don't  ye  fetch  down  that  old  Constitu- 
tion out  o'  the  west  chamber?" 

"I  don't  know.     I  don't  believe  I  will." 

"Ain't  you  done  your  hair  a  mite  on  one 
side?" 

"  Maybe  I  have.     I  ain't  looked  at  it." 

"What  you  got  on  that  old  choc'late  calico 
tor?     You  don't  look  nat'ral." 

"  I  don't  care  how  I  look,"  said  Dorinda. 

Aunt  Dorindy  opened  her  mouth  in  an  inef- 
fectual gasp,  closed  it,  and  went  home. 

But  the  space  left  vacant  on  the  wall  was 
vacant  still.  Dorinda,  dressed  in  sober  calico, 
sat  by  the  window  and  bound  a  marvelous  quan- 
tity of  shoes.  She  hardly  looked  up  from  her 
work,  even  when  Aunt  Dorindy  brought  tidings 
that  old  lady  Talbot  was  still  in  bed  with  a  pro- 
longed ''heart  spell."  Martin  was  staying  at 
home  with  her.  He  was  not  allowed  to  leave 
his  mother's  sight.  At  the  end  of  the  week 
Dorinda  went  out  to  the  front  gate  and  looked 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  285 

wistfully  up  and  down  the  road,  recognizing  her 
own  loneliness,  and  wondering  why  it  should 
seem  so  dull  to  think  of  visiting  the  neighbors. 
She  leaned  on  the  gate  and  mused  blankly  over 
her  desolation,  and  there  Eli  Morse  saw  her,  as 
he  walked  by  with  a  basket  full  of  young  tomato 
plants.  He  was  a  tall,  loosely  jointed  man, 
with  the  absorbed  look  of  one  who  has  some 
gentle  passion  and  tends  it  by  himself.  Years 
ago  he  had  raised  the  laughter  of  the  neighbor- 
hood by  starting  a  market  garden,  though  this 
was  thirty  miles  from  town  and  three  miles  from 
a  railroad.  But  strawberries  and  spring  greens 
repaid  his  fostering.  He  lived  alone,  in  a  sweet 
intimacy  with  his  garden,  and  put  away  the 
money  it  brought  him,  not  from  niggardliness, 
but  because  it  made  an  alien  element  in  his 
simple  ways.  When  he  looked  at  Dorinda,  the 
clouded  loveliness  of  her  face  besought  him,  like 
a  flower  drenched  in  storm.  He  stopped,  and 
spoke  with  a  faltering  pity. 

**  You  look  all  beat  out." 

Dorinda  smiled. 

"I  've  been  sewin',"  said  she. 

"What  makes  you.?" 

"I  don't  know.     It 's  as  good  as  anything." 

While  he  was  standing  there  before  her,  Mar- 
tin Talbot  passed.  For  a  moment,  relying  on 
the  habit  of  old  days,  Dorinda  thought  he  meant 


286  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

to  stop;  but  he  only  gave  her  a  brief  good- 
evening,  and  hurried  on.  He  looked  wan  and 
sorry. 

"Old  Mis'  Talbot's  pretty  low,"  said  Eli. 
"  Guess  he  's  puttin'  for  the  doctor." 

The  breath  of  evening  touched  Dorinda's 
cheek,  and  made  her  sigh  in  answer.  Her 
muscles  ached  from  the  cramping  day,  and 
she  longed  to  taste  the  air  that  made  this  man 
so  calm.  Hot  cravings  seemed  afar  from  him ; 
with  his  still  face  and  gentle  eyes  he  might  have 
been  a  part  of  the  earth,  risen  up  out  of  it  for  a 
moment's  activity,  then  to  return  gladly  to  some 
deep  covert. 

**I  wish  I  could  work  outdoors,"  said  she  un- 
thinkingly.    '*I  'm  sick  and  tired  of  the  house." 

A  new  light  shot  into  his  face. 

"You  can,"  said  he.  *'It's  complete. 
There  's  nothin'  like  it." 

"Could  I  have  a  garden?" 

"I  guess  you  could.  You  could  sell  things. 
I  'd  carry  your  stuff  with  mine." 

"It 's  too  late  for  this  year,  though." 

"No,  it  ain't:  not  for  everything.  You  could 
sow  some  lettuce  an'  some  redishes,  an'  plant 
late  corn.  You  could  have  tomatoes.  Look  a' 
here!     I'll  leave  these  plants." 

He  went  in  and  sat  on  the  steps  with  her  until 
late  in  the  evening,  while  they  talked  of  gar- 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  287 

dens;  and  next  day,  almost  before  the  dawn, 
he  and  his  man  were  planting  for  her. 

Then  Dorinda  began  her  new  life.  She  gave 
up  her  housework,  and  lived  out  of  doors.  She 
and  Eli  drifted  into  an  odd,  unspoken  partner- 
ship. He  carried  her  produce  to  market  and 
worked  for  her,  as  she,  when  lighter  tasks  were 
urgent,  worked  for  him.  The  neighbors  wagged 
their  heads  and  prophesied,  and  Aunt  Dorinda 
clucked  like  a  hen  because  Dorinda  would  not 
talk  of  sheets  and  tablecloths.  Mrs.  Talbot 
kept  her  bed,  not  so  much  because  her  state  de- 
manded it  as  that  the  pathos  of  persistent  illness 
was  an  iron  finger  on  her  son.  Martin's  shoul- 
ders bent  under  the  weight  of  life.  Once  within 
the  first  month  he  met  Dorinda  face  to  face  by 
her  own  gate. 

"Did  you  mean  that,  Dorinda,"  he  asked, 
'*what  you  said .?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  kindliness  that  left  him 
chilled. 

"Yes,"  she  said;  '*!  meant  it." 

When  he  spoke  again,  the  words  were  like  a 
sob. 

"Dorinda,  I  don't  know  whether  I  done  right 
or  wrong.     But  I  could  n't  kill  her." 

"Of  course  you  couldn't,"  said  Dorinda, 
with  the  same  decisive  clearness.  *'I  don't  ex- 
pect you  to." 


288  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

She  walked  inside  her  gate  alone,  and  all  that 
afternoon  she  hoed  potatoes  in  the  sun,  and  took 
a  fierce  delight  in  thinking  how  the  dirt  was  sift- 
ing into  her  shoes,  and  how  coarse  her  hands 
would  look.  That  night  at  supper  time  came 
Aunt  Dorindy. 

"Ain't  you  got  a  coat  o'  tan!"  said  she. 
"You  '11  be  as  black  as  an  Injun  'fore  summer  -s 
over." 

It  was  like  the  verdict  of  the  world  on  a  lost 
cause.  Dorinda  washed  her  hands  mechani- 
cally at  the  sink,  and  thought  her  pang  was  over. 
There  would  not  be  the  agony  of  growing  old. 
She  had  bought  at  one  purchase  what  Aunt 
Dorindy  was  accepting  from  the  niggard  years. 
She  wondered,  with  a  dull  curiosity  that  held  no 
bitterness,  how  her  skin  looked  now  it  was  get- 
ting black,  and  how  long  it  would  be  before  the 
sun  made  wrinkles  under  her  eyes.  After  that 
day  she  withdrew  more  and  more  into  a  silence 
of  her  own,  and  the  neighbors  ceased  to  question 
her.  She  had  turned  queer,  they  said,  takin' 
up  man's  work,  an'  all. 

The  progress  of  the  years  began,  the  years 
that  make  up  life.  The  man  and  woman  con- 
tinued their  tacit  partnership,  like  two  earth 
spirits  born  to  toil  for  some  compelling  reason 
they  could  not  understand.  The  neighbors 
wondered   whether    they  would    marry    when 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  289 

they  had  laid  by  enough;  but  between  them- 
selves there  was  no  talk  of  marriage.  Eli  in- 
structed Dorinda  in  crops  and  all  the  ancient 
lore  of  earth.  Sometimes  he  told  her  about  the 
woods  and  herbs  that  grow  in  hidden  places,  and 
more  than  once  he  led  her  to  the  spot  where  a 
partridge  had  hidden  the  treasure  of  her  nest. 
Dorinda  learned  from  him  in  some  strange  way, 
as  if  she  breathed  it  in,  the  patience  of  the  sea- 
sons and  the  soil.  Spring  found  her  out  of 
doors,  and  in  the  winter,  unless  the  snow  lay 
deep,  she  went,  with  some  unformed  purpose, 
tramping  over  the  hills.  In  years  she  had  not 
seen  her  own  face.  When  she  combed  her  long 
hair  she  would  not  look  at  the  sweeping  mane, 
lest  it  had  grown  dull,  like  Aunt  Dorindy's. 
Sometimes,  when  she  went  into  a  neighbor's,  her 
reflection,  as  she  passed  a  mirror,  waved  and 
beckoned  to  her;  but  she  never  turned.  It  was 
as  if  the  ghost  of  her  repudiated  youth  held  out 
a  hand  in  vain.  In  the  seventh  winter  Eli  died, 
after  a  short  sickness,  and  she  sat  beside  him  in 
the  dawn  and  tended  him.  He  turned  loving 
eyes  upon  her. 

"I  've  prized  you  more  'n  ever  you  knew,  Do- 
rindy,"  said  he,  "  Seems  sometimes  as  if  a  piece 
was  cut  right  out  o'  your  life  and  gi'n  to  me. 
I  've  had  good  days  with  you.  Well,  he  need  n't 
begrutch    'em    to   me.      Good-by,    Dorindy." 


290  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

Then  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  there  was  no 
more  talking. 

When  the  will  was  found,  Dorinda  had  his 
land.  This  was  in  December;  and  with  a 
strange  new  patience  she  made  her  plans  for 
more  gardening,  and  for  hiring  two  men  instead 
of  one. 

On  a  spring  day,  when  the  plow  was  set 
into  the  first  furrow.  Aunt  Dorindy  came  and 
said: 

''Old  Mis'  Talbot's  goin'  at  last.  High 
time,  too!  Martin  sets  there  in  the  kitchen. 
He  won't  take  bite  nor  sup.  She  don't  know 
him,  neither.  Some  say  he  's  begun  to  mourn ; 
but  I  say  his  mother 's  be'n  the  death  of  him." 

Dorinda  went  swiftly  out  of  the  house  and 
down  the  road.  She  turned  in  at  the  Talbots' 
gate,  and  smelled  the  sweet  clove  long  before  she 
came  to  it.  A  light  wind  wafted  it  to  meet  her. 
She  went  in  at  the  kitchen  door,  and  there 
she  found  him  sitting  by  the  window,  his  head 
sunken  between  his  shoulders.  His  face  was 
scarred  by  lines  of  grief  and  age,  but  it  looked 
withered,  as  if  no  tear  had  touched  it.  The 
house  was  very  still,  all  but  the  buzzing  of  one 
fly  upon  an  upper  pane.  Mrs.  Talbot  was 
asleep,  and  the  nurse,  lying  on  the  lounge  beside 
her,  slept,  too.  Dorinda  walked  up  to  Martin, 
and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  291 

"Martin!"  said  she,  speaking  softly,  but  as 
if  she  called  one  from  the  dead.     '* Martin!" 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  dull  wonderment. 

"Dorinda,"  said  he.  "Is  that  you,  Do- 
rinda.?" 

She  seated  herself  beside  him,  and  drew  his 
head  down  to  her  breast.  She  was  strong  with 
the  vigor  built  up  through  hardy  years  lived  near 
the  earth;  and  he,  shrunken  and  weak  with 
grief,  seemed  like  a  child  beside  her.  The 
denied  motherhood  in  her  rose  with  an  enfolding 
tenderness,  and  she  touched  his  hair. 

"You  stay  here  a  minute,  dear,"  she  whis- 
pered him.     "I  '11  make  a  cup  o'  tea." 

Martin  lay  down,  and  watched  her  from  the 
pillow,  with  the  gaze  of  hungry  souls  new  come 
to  heaven.  The  nurse  appeared,  and  looked 
her  wonder;  but  the  tea  was  made,  and  when 
Dorinda  poured  it,  with  a  sweet  composure, 
they  drank  together. 

"  I  would  n't  go  far  away,"  said  the  nurse  to 
Martin,  in  a  tone  of  prophecy;  and  he  nodded. 
He  was  another  man.  He  had  quaffed  some 
great  assurance  from  Dorinda's  eyes,  and  life 
flowed  in  on  him. 

Dorinda  stepped  about,  doing  little  neigh- 
borly deeds,  and  once  she  stopped  near  him  to 
say  haltingly,  with  some  shyness  at  essaying 
comfort : 


292  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"Don't  take  it  so.     You  mustn't." 

"It  ain't  that,"  labored  the  man.  "It  ain't 
now.  It 's  what  we  've  undergone  so  long." 
The  slow  tears  trickled  down  his  cheeks. 

After  that  the  sick  woman  moaned  a  little, 
and  Dorinda  said  no  more,  lest  the  dying  ears 
should  catch  some  hint  of  her.  Seven  years  ago 
she  could  not  have  stolen  into  that  house  to 
guide  its  currents ;  but  now  life  seemed  larger  to 
her,  and  the  living  more  to  be  considered  than 
the  dead.  At  sunset  old  lady  Talbot  spoke  out 
clearly  to  her  son: 

"You  call  her  in  here.  Dorindy!  You  call 
Dorindy!" 

He  spoke  the  name  like  an  echo,  and  Dorinda 
answered  it.  The  woman  turned  beseeching 
eyes  upon  her. 

"That 's  a  good  girl,"  said  she,  and  died. 

Dorinda  went  quietly  out  of  the  house;  and 
next  day  she  watched  her  plowing,  and  sowed 
early  peas.  She  was  the  only  one  of  the  neigh- 
bors who  did  not  go  to  old  lady  Talbot's  funeral. 
Instead  she  sat  at  home,  and  thought  of  life  in  a 
strange  equable  musing,  like  one  for  whom  the 
keenness  of  the  struggle  is  quite  over,  while 
sweetness  still  remains.  She  thought  of  young 
Dorinda  with  a  tender  smile,  as  of  some  one  who 
had  died,  a  creature  all  frailties,  yet  with  one 
desire, — to  be  beloved.     The  creature  had  been 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  293 

beautiful.  The  woman  who  mused  about  her 
had  ceased  thinking  of  her  own  face,  worn  as 
it  must  be,  and  scarred  by  careless  usage. 

The  next  day  she  took  up  her  work  again,  and 
at  twilight  Martin  came.  She  heard  his  step  on 
the  walk,  and  it  all  seemed  a  part  of  a  dream. 
She  had  been  in  the  vestibule  of  the  dream  be- 
fore. He  came  into  the  sitting-room,  where  she 
had  risen  to  meet  him,  and  Dorinda,  in  a  strange 
acquiescence,  let  him  take  her  to  his  heart. 

"There!"  she  said  gently,  stepping  apart 
from  him.  "There,  Martin,  we  mustn't  call 
things  back." 

He  looked  like  the  ghost  of  his  youth. 

"Don't  you  care  about  me?"  he  asked,  like 
a  child.  "  I  ain't  wuth  it,  Dorinda.  I  never 
knew  how  to  fix  things  when  they  got  so  tangled, 
but  I  thought  that  day  —  I  thought  you  cared." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  care,"  said  Dorinda.  She  real- 
ized in  that  flash  how  patient  she  had  grown. 
"  I  care.  But  things  are  over  when  a  woman  's 
got  to  be  —  like  me.  It 's  all  gone,  Martin, 
what  you  liked  —  all  gone." 

"  What  I  liked,  Dorinda.     What  did  I  like  ?  " 

"My  looks  are  gone,"  said  Dorinda  simply. 

The  man  in  him  awoke;  it  was  the  man  that 
had  hungered  for  her  in  silence  under  an  un- 
worthy fetter.  He  took  her  strong  wrists  and 
drew  her  toward  him. 


294  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"  Dorinda,"  he  whispered,  "  you  're  the  pretti- 
est thing  God  ever  made;  but  if  you  wa'n't  — 
if  you  was  homely,  if  you  was  old  —  O  Dorinda, 
don't  you  know  ?  " 

She  knew,  and  life  returned  upon  her  like  a 
flood. 

When  he  was  gone,  she  ran  upstairs  in  the 
daring  of  great  joy,  and  out  of  the  blackness  of 
the  attic  took  the  looking-glass.  She  carried  it 
down,  catching  strange  fragments  of  reflection 
as  she  went,  and  hung  it  in  its  place.  Then  she 
lighted  two  candles,  and,  holding  one  in  either 
hand,  looked  at  herself.  The  face  that  met  her 
was  a  loving  stranger.  It  was  like  the  mother 
of  the  girl  who  bade  herself  good-by  so  long  ago. 
This  was  a  daughter  of  the  earth,  a  child  of 
wind  and  sun.  The  eyes  were  deep  and  patient; 
the  hair  had  darkened,  but  it  held  glints  of 
gold.  Here  and  there  were  little  characters 
set  down;  yet  life  had  only  touched  her  to  new 
bloom  and  ripening.  While  she  mused  the  eyes 
began  to  smile,  the  mouth  took  on  a  curving 
grace,  and  three  dimples  she  had  quite  forgotten 
came  out  and  danced  before  her. 

"Oh!"  said  Dorinda.  "Oh!"  and  under- 
stood the  resurrection. 


A  HERMI'T  IN  ARCADIA 


A  HERMIT  IN  ARCADIA 

It  was  a  pulsating  noon  in  the  spring  of  the 
year.  Adam  Field  dusted  the  flour  from  his 
hands,  and  came  to  the  door  of  his  little  house  to 
salute  the  weather.  He  was  the  hermit  of  the 
Tristram  Woods,  and  this  was  his  baking-day. 
Four  pies,  desirably  browned,  stood  on  the 
kitchen  table,  and  the  dough  he  had  given  its 
second  moulding  was  set  in  the  pans  to  rise. 
These  were  duties  past;  but  his  pleasures  lay 
out  of  doors,  and  he  came  forth  to  seek  them. 
He  was  a  tall,  great-shouldered  creature,  with 
bronze-red  hair  and  a  freckled  face.  The  line 
of  his  profile  swept  nobly  from  brow  to  chin,  and 
at  first  sight  he  justified  the  exactions  of  beauty 
as  applied  to  men. 

But  looking  longer  at  him,  it  would  be  found 
that  all  this  strength  of  moulding  and  outline 
was  pathetically  softened  by  his  eyes.  They 
were  dog's  eyes,  brown  and  seeking,  and  by  no 
means  knowing  what  they  sought.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  gingham  shirt  and  gray  trousers, 
and  he  wore  a  blue  checked  apron.  The  apron 
he  untied,  and,  turning,  hung  it  on  a  nail  by  the 
door,  moving  with  the  air  of  one  who  does  an 


298  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

accustomed  act  with  an  added  precision  because 
he  hates  it.  Returned  to  man's  estate  by  the 
removal  of  the  belittUng  garment,  he  seemed  to 
free  his  soul  and  let  it  rove  abroad  among  the 
riches  of  the  day. 

His  house,  gray-lichened  in  its  ancientry, 
stood  on  the  shore  of  Tristram  Pond,  and  the 
little  clearing  about  it  was  fringed  by  trees,  now 
lustily  pricking  into  green.  So  lucent  was  the 
green,  and  yet  so  pervasive,  that  it  held  every 
coign  of  the  forest  like  an  ardent  mist.  It 
seemed  to  rise  and  waver  before  Adam's  vision, 
and  his  responsive  senses  told  him  he  might 
almost  bathe  in  it.  He  was  at  one  with  the 
woods,  not  even  owning  in  his  heart  that  he 
loved  them,  but  yet  absorbed  into  their  thrilling 
life.  Suddenly,  while  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  a 
group  of  birches  marking  out  the  path  about  the 
pond,  they  parted,  and  a  girl  stood  there,  framed 
in  green. 

"Gee!"  said  Adam  Field.  It  was  the  old 
situation,  a  man  and  a  maid ;  but  he  found  him- 
self as  disturbed  by  it  as  if  the  one  of  them  had 
been  Adam  the  First,  and  the  other.  Eve.  The 
day  and  the  season  smelt  so  new  that  the  girl 
seemed  new  also. 

Yet  she  was  not  in  any  sense  remarkable  to 
the  generalizing  glance,  —  a  slight  thing,  with  a 
brown  face  and  brown  hair  growing  in  a  one- 


A  HERMIT  IN  ARCADIA         299 

sided  peak  on  her  forehead.  Her  eyes  only 
were  unusual.  They  were  large  and  dark,  and 
at  this  moment  they  held  the  gypsy  glint.  The 
hermit  met  them,  and  could  not  look  away. 
Their  gleam  bewitched  him.  He  had  an  im- 
pulse to  walk  forward  in  response,  but  as  he  laid 
a  hand  upon  the  casing  of  the  door,  to  be  assured 
of  something  solid,  the  girl  smiled.  Her  face 
crinkled  up;  the  brown  pool  of  the  eyes  broke, 
and  Adam  was  released.  He  drew  a  quick 
breath,  and  passed  a  hand  before  his  eyes.  The 
girl  came  lightly  forward.  She  held  a  withe, 
and  stripped  it  as  she  walked. 

"Are  you  the  hermit?"  she  inquired. 

Adam  frowned.  '*I  should  like  to  know," 
said  he  fractiously,  **if  a  chap  can't  go  off 
and  live  by  himself  without  being  called 
names!" 

''What 's  anybody  want  to  go  off  by  them- 
selves for?"  asked  the  girl,  with  an  outward 
indifference  and  yet  some  keenness  of  veiled 
interest. 

"Because  they  're  sick  of  the  whole  damned 
show!" 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  fashion  so  gravely  in- 
dulgent that  Adam's  heart  gave  one  quick  throb: 
for  he  thought  of  his  apron.  Then  he  remem- 
bered having  taken  it  off,  and  he  blessed  his 
stars. 


300  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"  She  said  you  had  a  lovely  voice,"  remarked 
the  girl,  with  a  smooth  irrelevance. 

"Who?" 

*' Melissa  Beane.  She  that  was  Melissa 
Hawkins." 

The  slow  red  crept  into  his  face  and  suffused 
it.  Many  thoughts  were  surging  within  him,  but 
none  such  as  he  could  utter.  For  certain  reasons 
he  felt  that  Melissa  Hawkins  had  the  sorry  right 
to  say  anything  she  pleased  about  him. 

"She  told  me  how  you  looked,"  continued  the 
girl  dispassionately,  **but  you  ain't  half  so 
freckled  as  I  expected." 

The  pinprick  hurt.  His  mates  at  school  had 
taunted  him  with  freckles,  and  that  old  nerve 
had  life  enough  to  thrill. 

"  I  ain't  the  only  one  in  the  world  that 's 
freckled,"  said  he;  but  the  girl  interrupted  him 
sweetly : 

"Do  you  mean  me?  Oh,  no!  I  ain't 
freckled.  I  'm  tanned,  that 's  all.  You  'd  better 
see  to  your  oven.   Something  's  burning." 

Adam  could  never  explain  why  he  felt  so  hope- 
lessly at  her  mercy.  She  seemed  to  possess  an 
infinite  power  of  deriding  him,  and  he  was  the 
more  undone  because  he  felt,  at  the  bottom  of 
his  soul,  that  she  could  soothe  with  an  equal 
potency.  She  hurt  him,  and  undoubtedly  wished 
to  hurt;   yet  mingled  with  his  inner   protest 


A  HERMIT  IN  ARCADIA         301 

against  the  injustice  of  that  onslaught  was  an 
unreasoning  desire  to  go  to  her  for  comfort. 
But  the  girl,  as  if  she  knew  nothing  about  these 
warring  subtleties,  looked  at  him  with  satirical 
eyes.  Within  the  man  waves  of  resolution  were 
mounting  high.  No  power  on  earth  should 
force  him  to  acknowledge  before  his  arch  tor- 
mentor that  ovens  and  other  household  gear 
were  not  things  afar  from  him. 

**  There  's  nothing  to  burn,"  said  he  firmly. 

She  swept  the  words  aside  in  wholesale  scorn. 
"I  guess  I  know!"  said  she.  **You  just  let  me 
look!"  She  brushed  past  him,  crossed  the 
kitchen,  and  opened  the  oven  door.  Burned 
pastry  and  trickling  juices  met  her  in  a  steaming 
cloud,  and  she  spoke  warmly,  yet  with  some 
indulgence,  as  one  to  an  inferior  in  a  kindred 
art :  *'  I  'd  be  ashamed !  They  were  elegant  pies, 
and  you  've  let  'em  run  all  to  waste." 

Deft  as  some  trained  ministrant,  she  caught  a 
dish-towel  from  the  nail  and  took  out  the  pies. 
She  set  them  on  the  table  beside  the  others,  and 
regarded  them  with  true  sorrow. 

"The  crust  is  as  flaky  as  ever  I  see,"  she  re- 
marked, as  if  confiding  in  some  sympathetic  deity. 
**  And  you  've  let  it  burn  to  a  crisp."  Then  she 
turned  upon  him  with  a  hateful  smile,  and  asked 
insinuatingly,  "You  fond  of  cooking.^" 

'*No!"  thundered  the  hermit.     But  he  was 


302  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

breathlessly  content,  seeing  her  inside  his  door. 
Keen  desire  flashed  up  in  him  to  keep  her  there. 

"What  makes  you  do  it,  then  ?"  She  seated 
herself,  like  a  bad  fairy,  on  a  stool  in  the  chim- 
ney corner,  and  looked  at  him  with  impudent 
eyes.  Instantly  Adam  Field  judged  and  classi- 
fied his  deftness  about  the  house.  He  had 
always  hated  woman's  work,  though  he  gave  it 
great  attention  because  it  was  his  religion  to  do 
all  things  well.  Now  it  seemed  to  him  not 
merely  dull,  but  most  unmanly. 

"  Somebody 's  got  to  do  it,"  he  returned 
lamely. 

'*If  you  'd  married  Melissa,  she  'd  have  done 
it  for  you." 

He  made  no  answer,  even  to  voice  a  sudden 
inward  relief  that  he  had  not  married  Melissa, 
with  her  yellow  hair  and  her  look  of  eternal 
Sabbaths. 

"If  you'd  married  Melissa,"  continued  his 
tormentor  calmly,  "I  should  be  visiting  you 
both.  I  'm  staying  with  her  mother;  but  your 
house  is  bigger  than  the  one  Melissa  lives  in 
now,  so  she  'd  have  had  me  there." 

His  doglike  eyes  besought  her  not  to  play 
with  such  fine  ironies;  but  she  sparkled  back 
an  answer,  and  went  on : 

"Don't  you  want  to  know  what  I  'm  down 
here  for?" 


A  HERMIT  IN  ARCADIA         303 

He  answered  eagerly,  her  cruelties  forgotten, 
"Yes,  I  do." 

"Well,  Melissa  told  me  you  'd  jilted  her"  — 

"I  didn't  jilt  her,"  he  continued  in  haste. 
The  words  tumbled  tumultuously.  Though  she 
jeered  at  him,  he  had  a  pathetic  certainty  that, 
after  all,  she  would  understand.  It  was  an 
almost  poignant  relief,  too;  for  never  before 
had  he  been  able,  in  speech,  to  touch  upon  that 
mortifying  time.  '*You  don't  see  how  it  was. 
She  did  n't.  Nobody  does.  We  were  going  to 
be  married.  I  liked  her  real  well,  and  I  wanted 
her  to  be  happy." 

A  curious  expression  came  over  the  girl's  face. 
It  was  that  quick,  wounded  look  which  betrays 
a  jealous  mind. 

"I  'm  a  queer  chap,"  Adam  went  on,  in  that 
rush  of  confidence.  "So  how  was  I  going  to 
know  whether  I  could  make  her  happy  or  not  ? 
Still,  I  liked  her,  and  I  meant  to  chance  it.  But 
when  it  was  'most  time  for  us  to  be  married,  I 
got  scared.  I  got  so  scared  I  told  her  so.  I  bet, 
if  the  truth  was  known,  every  man  jack  of  'em  's 
scared  before  he  's  married.  You  ask  'em,  and 
if  there 's  any  man  in  'em,  they  '11  own  it. 
Well,  I  owned  it  to  her,  and  she  cried,  and  Silas 
Beane  he  up  and  married  her." 

'*And  you  locked  your  door  and  came  traips- 
ing off  down  here  to  make  town  talk  of  yourself 


304  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

over  all  this  hermit  business,"  said  the  girl 
sharply.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  angry  tears. 
She  felt  that  unreasoning  bitterness  from  which 
we  wound  our  beloved  when  they  put  themselves 
in  the  wrong. 

*'It  wa'n't  what  you  think.  I  could  bear  to 
see  her,  but  I  could  n't  face  being  a  coward.  I 
could  n't  live  with  other  folks.  You  can't  see. 
You  could  n't  if  you  tried  a  year."  Yet  at  the 
same  instant  he  was  conscious  of  a  warming 
hopefulness  that  she  could  unriddle  all  the  prob- 
lems likely  to  concern  him. 

The  girl  put  out  her  hand,  and  then  withdrew 
it  before  he  could  guess  whether  it  was  for  him. 
''Well,"  she  said,  ''I  must  go." 

Adam  felt  himself  thrown,  with  a  shock,  out 
of  accustomed  musings,  to  face  this  quick  re- 
verse. '  *  No ! "  he  cried,  appealingly  — '  *  no !  you 
ain't  going.?" 

She  was  making  her  way  toward  the  door. 
He  looked  at  her  sharply,  in  the  keenness  of  his 
questioning,  and  he  could  see  that  this  was  quite 
a  different  girl  from  the  one  who  had  parted  the 
bushes  with  that  witchlike  mien.  She  was  a 
little  pale  under  her  brown  skin.  Her  eyes  held 
something  like  a  troubled  tenderness. 

"I  help  Aunt  Sarah  get  the  dinner,"  said  she. 

"But  I  don't  know  what  your  name  is," 
blundered  Adam. 


A  HERMIT  IN  ARCADIA  305 

Again  she  sparkled.  Her  spirits  returned 
with  a  dash.  "That 's  no  consequence,"  said 
she.     **You  won't  have  to  use  it." 

He  looked  at  her  helplessly,  and  she  laughed. 
He  was  so  big,  so  soft  and  sorry,  so  like  an 
elephantine  puppy  lost  in  the  snow. 

"What  a  goose  you  were,"  she  said  irrele- 
vantly, "to  give  up  Melissa!" 

"I  did  n't  give  her  up!" 

"Well,  make  her  give  you  up.  You  were 
a  goose.  You  'd  have  been  living  in  that  nice 
big  house,  and  Melissa  'd  have  made  your 
pies." 

"I  don't  want  her  to  make  my  pies!" 

"Well,"  she  returned,  with  her  diabolic  pre- 
cision, "I  don't  know  's  they  'd  have  been  so 
flaky." 

In  that  instant  he  resolved  that  thenceforward 
this  should  be  a  pieless  house. 

She  had  stepped  out  of  the  door,  and  the 
spring  sunshine  fell  upon  her  hair  and  set  a 
shimmer  on  every  curly  crest.  *'  Well,"  she  said 
meditatively,  "I'm  sorry  you  haven't  got 
Melissa!" 

' '  I  would  n't  take  the  gift  of  her ! "  The  pas- 
sion of  this  defiance  he  understood  as  little  as 
the  former  disquiet  the  creature  had  aroused; 
but  he  sent  it  hurtling  after  her.  She  was  walk- 
ing away  lightly  and  very  rapidly.    In  an  instant 


306  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

the  bushes  would  close  upon  her.  Adam  started 
after,  and  reached   her  in  a  series  of   strides. 

*'Say,"  he  began  violently,  "you  tell  me  what 
your  name  is!" 

''Angelica  Payne,"  said  she,  still  walking 
away.  He  remembered  then.  She  had  been  a 
visitor  here  before,  an  ugly,  elfin  sort  of  child, 
and  he  had  strangely  forgotten  her. 

'* Angelica  Payne!"  said  he  wonderingly,  as 
he  followed  her.  She  was  more  and  also  less 
miraculous  now  that  she  had  a  name.  But 
with  a  twist  of  his  will  he  broke  the  spell,  though 
for  an  instant  only. 

"Well,"  said  he  roughly,  "what  you  down 
here  on  my  land  for,  anyways?" 

She  confronted  him,  and,  to  keep  her  com- 
posure, called  up  some  weak  defiance.  But  the 
sparkle  had  gone  out  of  it.  "I  wanted  to  see  a 
man  that  was  afraid  to  marry  a  girl,"  she  said,  in 
a  poor  simulation  of  scorn. 

This  time  Adam  hardly  winced.  He  was 
going  to  lose  her,  and  the  prospect  held  some- 
thing incomprehensibly  poignant.  ' '  Angelica ! " 
he  called  after  her,  "shan't  you  come  down 
here  again .?" 

She  cast  a  flashing  look  over  her  shoulder. 
Her  face  was  dimpled  with  fun,  but  he  read  also 
some  fine  scorn  of  him.  "You  're  real  kind," 
said  she.     "Of  course  I  '11  come.     A  man  that 


A  HERMIT  IN  ARCADIA         307 

was  afraid  to  marry  a  girl  would  expect  other 
girls  to  come  and  call." 

Adam  groaned  in  his  inability  to  cope  with 
her,  and  she  went  rustling  on  through  the 
bushes.  When  the  path  turned  she  stopped 
an  instant,  and  again  looked  back.  '*Oh,  I  '11 
come!"  said  she  softly.  "I  '11  bring  you  a  re- 
ceipt for  cake!"     And  he  had  lost  her. 

He  walked  heavily  back  to  the  house,  and  sat 
down  upon  the  step.  There  he  stayed  for  per- 
haps an  hour,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  little  weed  at 
his  feet.  He  seemed  to  be  learning  it  by  heart, 
the  leaves  and  the  horseshoe  shadow  on  them. 
But  chiefly  he  mused  upon  his  visitor,  and  gave 
some  vague  cognizance  to  the  strange  self  she 
had  liberated  within  him.  He  thought  he  knew 
his  own  nature  to  the  root,  after  days  of  intro- 
spection down  here  alone,  and  nights  of  reverie; 
yet  all  this  formulating  turned  upon  his  faults. 
He  had  a  curious  scorn  of  himself,  of  his  great 
strength,  and  the  softness  of  heart  that  made 
him  a  child  whenever  it  came  to  action.  He 
could  not  even  "go  gunning"  as  other  fellows 
did;  he  was  afraid  of  hitting  some  warm  and 
palpitating  mark,  some  winged  timidity.  He 
could  not  speak  in  town-meeting  for  fear  of 
*'hard  feelings"  somewhere. 

The  extremity  of  bathos  had  come  in  his  hesi- 
tating at  the  altar  because  he  liked  Melissa  too 


308  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

well  to  marry  her;  and,  following  on  that,  an 
overkeen  sensitiveness  brought  echoing  to  his 
ears  those  hoots  of  derision  certain  to  attend  his 
name.  So  he  had  shut  up  his  house,  sent  off 
old  Betsy,  who  had  worked  for  him  ever  since 
his  mother's  death,  and  betaken  himself  to  the 
woods.  As  a  citizen  and  a  man  he  had  become, 
in  his  own  estimating,  a  being  of  no  account;  and 
he  proposed  to  spend  the  rest  of  these  hateful 
years  removed  from  the  men  with  whom  he 
could  not  cope,  and  who  must  perpetually  judge 
him.  But  Angelica  Payne  had  arrived.  Things 
were  at  once  different.  He  pulled  out  the  scroll 
of  his  past  life,  as  a  man  must  do  for  at  least  one 
woman,  and  groaned  over  its  futility.  All  the 
day's  routine  took  part  in  his  changed  mood. 
He  did  not  set  his  orderly  dinner-table  as  usual, 
but  stood  at  the  cupboard  and  ate  savagely, 
showering  the  floor  with  crumbs.  Nor  would 
he  sweep  the  crumbs  away;  and  at  nightfall, 
when  the  kitchen,  like  himself,  betrayed  some 
signs  of  being  out  of  joint,  he  appraised  the  con- 
fusion and  exulted  in  it.  It  was  a  betrayal  of 
man's  housekeeping,  and  that  suited  him.  When 
she  came  again  she  should  not  flout  him. 

But  she  did  not  come  again.  The  days 
lagged,  while  Adam  stayed  religiously  by  his 
own  doorstone  lest  he  should  miss  her.  He 
made  curious  compromises  in  his  indoor  work. 


A  HERMIT  IN  ARCADIA         309 

striving  to  earn  her  approval  of  man's  house- 
keeping, and  yet  guessing  how  she  must  loathe 
untidiness.  Sometimes  he  left  the  floor  unswept, 
and  then  brushed  it  up  in  fevered  haste,  lest  she 
come  and  find  him  doing  it.  But  he  made  him- 
self fastidiously  clean  in  his  own  person,  since 
that  at  least  was  due  her.  Toward  the  end  of 
the  third  day  he  had  an  ache  in  his  throat,  the 
kind  from  which  he  had  dumbly  suffered  in 
childhood  when  his  mother  used  to  go  away,  at 
rare  intervals,  to  spend  the  night.  Later  it  came 
again  when  she  died ;  but  he  could  not  remember 
anybody  else  who  had  the  power  to  summon  it. 
At  five  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth 
day  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  Angelica 
did  not  mean  to  come  back  at  all.  That  cer- 
tainty was  like  a  blow  in  the  face  from  a  beloved 
hand.  A  great  reproach  welled  up  in  him.  It 
seemed  incredible  that  any  human  being  should 
treat  another  with  such  cruelty.  He  was  stand- 
ing by  his  doorstone  when  that  conclusion 
struck  him,  and  without  a  second's  delay  he  got 
his  hat  and  went  striding  toward  the  county 
road.  No  definite  purpose  moved  his  mind. 
He  could  hardly  seek  out  the  Hawkins  family  in 
pursuit  of  their  alluring  guest ;  but  he  was  drawn 
magnetically  toward  even  the  airs  enfolding  her. 
He  went  straight  across  lots  and  over  a  swampy 
tract  spanned  by  a  little  bridge;  and  there  she 


310  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

was.  It  was  like  a  miracle.  She  was  sitting  on 
a  bank,  staring  into  a  pool  of  black  water,  her 
chin  on  her  hand,  her  elbow  on  her  knee.  The 
pang  in  his  heart  saluted  her,  and  then  kept 
beating  on  in  a  sickening  joy  and  pain.  Fear  it 
held  also,  the  delicious  fear  that  threatens  and 
denies.  She  was  not  in  the  least  like  the  crea- 
ture who  had  baited  him  that  other  day.  Her 
face  had  fallen  into  musing;  the  red  mouth 
looked  sad.  The  world  was  bourgeoning  about 
her,  but  he  could  see,  through  that  involuntary 
comprehension  of  her  which  was  a  part  of  his 
nature,  that  her  own  thoughts  had  shut  her 
away  even  from  the  springtime.  He  had  not 
paused  in  his  swift  progress,  and  these  impres- 
sions flashed  across  his  mind  like  the  pageant 
from  a  moving  train.  At  one  plunging  step  she 
looked  up,  and  the  quiet  of  her  attitude  broke,  as 
a  ripple  stirs  within  a  stream.  She  did  not  utter 
a  sound,  but  her  eyes  dilated,  and  she  grew  a 
little  paler.  Adam  stood  before  her,  breathing 
hard.  He  took  off  his  hat,  and  passed  his  fingers 
through  his  moistened  hair.  He  spoke  with 
bitterness : 

''You  never  meant  to  come!  " 

Angelica  had  in  that  moment  been  summon- 
ing new  forces.  Her  cheeks  grew  warmer.  Her 
eyes  were  suddenly  alive  with  something  bound 
to  mock  at  him.     "Come  where?"  she  asked. 


A  HERMIT  IN  ARCADIA         311 

Instantly  he  remembered  the  taunt  she  had 
tossed  him  in  farewell,  and  he  could  not  run  the 
risk  of  hearing  it  again.  "You  said  a  lot  of 
things  to  me  the  other  day,"  he  began,  shifting 
his  ground. 

"Did  I.?"  answered  the  girl  innocently. 
*'Did  I  talk  too  much?" 

"You  said  a  lot  about  my  going  with  Me- 
lissa!" 

"  Oh,  no !  I  guess  I  did  n't  do  that.  I  don't 
care  anything  about  your  going  with  Melissa." 

"I  do!"  He  was  passionately  desirous  of 
proving  his  point.  He  would  protest,  explain. 
She  must  believe  him. 

"  Oh,  do  you  ?  I  'm  real  sorry.  But  it 's  too 
late  now.  She  's  married  to  Silas  Beane,  and  he 
ain't  the  kind  of  man  to  give  her  up." 

Again  she  was  trying  to  hurt  him.  He  knew 
that,  and  looked  at  her  in  an  acquiescent  help- 
lessness. She  seemed  to  be  equipped  at  every 
point  with  stings  warranted  to  wound. 

"  I  swear ! "  he  cried.  And  then  some  strange 
impulse  made  him  add,  "If  you  ain't  a  little 
devil!" 

Her  face  crinkled  up  into  a  bewilderment  of 
fun.  If  she  was  a  little  devil,  it  was  plain  she 
liked  to  be.  She  rose  and  patted  her  hair  into 
place.  A  shower  of  green  things  had  fallen  on 
it  from  above.     They  were  the  drift  of  the  grow- 


312  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

ing  year,  and  somehow,  seeing  them  so  tangled 
there,  the  spring  choked  Adam,  and  he  felt  the 
foolishness  of  talk.  This  woman  creature  had 
turned  him  into  a  mass  of  quivering  sensations. 
She  hurt;  she  delighted.  She  was  his  tormentor, 
his  angel,  his  heart's  darling  and  his  foe.  Great 
burning  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  The  impossi- 
bility of  her  understanding  at  this  point  —  nay, 
the  impossibility  of  quite  understanding  himself 
—  kept  him  silent,  and  made  his  bruised  heart 
doubly  sore. 

"  You  're  real  polite,"  remarked  Angelica. 
"  I  guess  I  '11  be  going." 

She  turned  demurely  and  walked  away  from 
him.  Adam  walked  after.  He  could  not  call 
to  her  as  he  had  the  other  day,  because  that 
somehow  seemed  to  belong  to  the  man  he  was, 
and  was  no  longer.  He  could  only  endure  these 
queer  feelings  within,  and  march  along,  fitting 
his  stride  to  her  irregular  pace.  They  kept  the 
black  cart-path,  enlaced  above  and  fringed  with 
ferns  below ;  but  when  they  neared  the  border  of 
the  bushes  where  the  open  meadow  lay  beyond, 
the  girl  stopped.  Her  voice  quivered  a  little,  as 
if  she  felt  some  new  mastery;  but  she  chose  her 
words  from  the  same  mocking  vocabulary. 

"You  better  not  go  any  further,"  she  said. 

"Why.?"  Question  and  answer  seemed  to 
him  significant.     His  voice  was  trembling. 


A  HERMIT  IN  ARCADIA         313 

** Somebody  might  see  you!** 

"What 's  the  harm  in  that?" 

"Ain't  you  hiding?"  she  asked  innocently. 
**  If  you  come  out  among  folks,  you  won't  be  a 
hermit  any  more.  Good-by."  She  walked  a 
step  without  looking  at  him,  and  Adam  over- 
took her. 

"Stop!"  he  said;  and  she  stopped,  though 
she  did  murmur  to  herself: 

"The  idea!" 

"  You  seem  to  think  I  'm  no  kind  of  a  man 
because  I  said  that  to  Melissa,"  he  began. 
"  Perhaps  I  ain't.  I  don't  lay  claim  to  much. 
I  want  to  ask  you  this :  What  would  you  say  if 
a  man  said  it  to  you  ?" 

The  girl  turned,  in  a  quick  access  of  feeling. 
She  looked  straight  into  his  face,  and  her  eyes 
were  burning.  "I  should  say,"  she  flashed, 
"that  I  didn't  care  whether  I  was  happy  or 
not,  ^ —  if  I  liked  him." 

The  landscape  seemed  to  engulf  her,  she  was 
so  swiftly  gone.  The  fringing  birches  closed  as 
she  melted  into  them,  and  the  air  betrayed  no 
echo  of  her  step.  Adam  did  not  follow.  He 
turned  about  as  quickly,  and  went  back  to  his 
lake.  It  was  without  conscious  resolution  that 
he  strode  into  the  little  house;  yet  there  was  no 
shade  of  indecision  in  what  he  did.  He  opened 
the  cupboard  door  and  took  out  the  scanty  relics 


314  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

left  from  food  which  had  of  late  contented  him, 
and  piled  them  in  a  milk  pan.  These  he  carried 
out  of  doors  and  dumped  in  a  hollow  where  the 
birds  were  accustomed  to  find  provender.  The 
water  thrown  from  his  pail,  he  gave  one  swift 
glance  about  him  for  anything  perishable  that 
might  not  be  left  behind.  There  was  a  blue 
apron  hanging  by  the  door.  His  eye  fell  upon 
it,  and  he  flushed  deeply,  with  rage  at  his  heart. 
It  was  the  insignia  of  disgrace,  and  he  seized  it  in 
his  hands  as  if  to  tear  it.  That  instant  he  re- 
membered that  it  was  his  mother's  apron,  and  he 
rolled  it,  with  a  remorseful  tenderness,  and  thrust 
it  on  a  cupboard  shelf.  Then  he  went  out,  shut 
the  door  upon  the  life  he  had  been  living,  and 
walked  away  without  one  look  behind.  Neither 
had  he  apprehending  eyes  for  the  woods  where 
such  months  of  seclusion  had  been  passed, 
though  now  they  were  full  of  a  great  significance. 
Twilight  was  coming,  and  peace  enwrapped 
them  like  a  garment.  There  were  little  rus- 
tlings and  stirrings  among  green  leaves,  although 
the  breeze  had  fallen.  The  sharp,  liquid  peep  of 
frogs  came  from  the  distance,  and  a  nearer  shrill- 
ing kept  the  measure. 

Adam  had  at  one  time  felt  that  he  was  as 
much  a  part  of  this  elemental  harmony  as  he 
could  be  of  anything.  He  had  learned  unfor- 
mulated things  out  of  it,  out  of  the  look  of  the 


A  HERMIT  IN  ARCADIA         315 

sky  and  the  way  the  wind  blew,  out  of  long,  level 
reaches  of  land.  He  had  not  been  happy,  be- 
cause with  his  strange,  tumultuous  nature  he 
was  not  happy  anywhere;  but  here  at  least  there 
was  peace,  and  he  had  not  meant  to  be  drawn 
from  it  into  that  turmoil  tolerated  by  other  men. 
But  now  some  note  had  sounded,  clear  and  com- 
pelling, out  of  the  myriad  noises  of  the  moving 
world.  It  was  for  him.  The  imagined  sound 
of  rushing  sap  and  the  greatening  of  leaves,  that 
universal  movement  of  the  growing  year,  had 
seemed  to  him  the  most  significant  thing  created ; 
but  suddenly  its  potency  yielded,  as  an  army 
parts  for  a  chieftain  with  banners,  and  he  must 
answer.  He  had  withdrawn  from  life.  He 
must  return.  But  this  was  not  thought  within 
him :  only  a  resistless  impulse  that  sent  him,  with 
a  whirring  in  his  head,  straight  back  to  his  old 
home.  There,  arriving  after  six  o'clock,  he 
opened  the  house  to  the  renewing  air.  A  man 
on  a  passing  team  gave  him  a  cordial,  "H'  are 
ye  ?"  and  that  night  the  news  spread  that  Adam 
had  come  back. 

Melissa  Beane,  straining  the  milk  in  the  dairy, 
heard  it  from  her  husband,  and  her  meek  face 
flushed  a  little. 

'*Now,"  said  she,  in  her  tepid  way,  "I  hope 
folks  '11  give  up  talkin'." 

Her  husband,  scented  from  the  barn  and  ox- 


316  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

like  in  good-humor,  set  down  the  last  milk  pail 
and  took  a  spear  of  hay  from  his  trousers.  He 
pulled  it  absorbedly  through  his  fingers,  and  fell 
into  the  process  serving  him  for  thought.  Silas 
was  a  clumsily  chiseled  figure,  all  honesty  and 
good- will.  '  *  Might  as  well,"  said  he.  *  *  I  never 
knew  what  all  this  hurrah-boys  was  about,  any- 
how." He  lounged  away  to  wash  his  hands, 
vaguely  soothed  by  Adam's  return  to  life.  A 
certain  disquieting  feeling  had  hung  over  him 
that  he  was  in  some  fashion  responsible  for  this 
hermit  business,  and  he  had  an  impression  that 
the  sooner  everybody  settled  down  to  their 
farming  the  better. 

Melissa  drew  a  sigh  over  the  milk.  She,  too, 
had  been  more  or  less  puzzled  by  the  little  drama 
where  she  had  played  so  dazed  a  part.  Adam 
had  always  embarrassed  her  by  his  queer  ways 
and  panics  over  nothing;  but  she  had  a  kindly 
feeling  for  him,  and  she  was  easier  in  her  mind 
now  that  he  had  assumed  the  ways  of  men. 

That  night  Adam  went  to  bed  without  any 
supper,  and  next  morning  he  tramped  to  Sud- 
leigh,  five  miles  away,  took  some  money  out  of 
the  bank,  and  bought  a  horse  and  wagon.  Then 
he  drove  five  miles  farther,  and  asked  old  Betsy 
Norcross  to  come  and  live  with  him.  Betsy  was 
overjoyed.  She  had  known  him  from  a  baby, 
and  she  was  used  to  all  his  ways.     Nothing 


A  HERMIT  IN  ARCADIA         317 

he  did  was  comprehensible,  and  nothing  was 
wrong.  She  hastily  packed  her  little  hair  trunk 
and  dressed  herself  in  her  best.  She  was  a 
slender  creature,  with  a  peaked  face,  most  loving 
eyes,  and  a  quizzical  mouth;  and  she  wore  a 
rusty  crape  shawl  and  a  bonnet  that  looked  as  if 
it  had  been  built  by  some  eccentric  and  untidy 
bird.  Now  she  mounted  the  wagon  in  a  state  as 
exalted  as  a  bride's.  Adam  took  his  place  beside 
her,  and  they  drove  away.  Betsy  was  thinking 
how  well  Adam  had  suited  her,  and  he  sud- 
denly remembered  how  perfectly  she  had  suited 
him. 

**Say,  Betsy,"  he  began,  as  they  drove  under 
the  quickening  elms,  "could  you  stay  right 
along.?" 

Betsy  nodded,  brimful  of  happiness.  Be- 
cause she  was  silent,  Adam  looked  at  her,  and 
she  nodded  again. 

"Would  you  stay  if  there  was  somebody  at 
the  head  of  the  house .?" 

Betsy  darted  a  look  at  him.  "You  goin'  to 
git  married.?"  she  asked. 

"Would  you  stay.?"  repeated  Adam. 

"Law,  ble^s  you,  yes!"  said  Betsy.  **I'm 
real  glad.     That  '11  be  complete." 

Betsy  cleaned  the  house,  and  she  and  Adam 
set  about  the  business  of  life.  He  bought  cows 
and  a  yoke  of  oxen,  and,  though  late,  began  his 


318  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

planting.  The  neighbors  dropped  in  at  odd 
times,  and  one  after  another  they  got  used  to  his 
return.  The  women  would  borrow  a  cup  of 
yeast  from  Betsy  and  ask  a  careless  question, 
and  they  found  her  loquacious  on  every  topic 
save  what  concerned  Adam.  When  he  met 
them,  men  or  women,  he  was  so  commonplace 
that  his  "crazed  spell"  dropped  into  abeyance. 
It  seemed  like  the  vanity  which  is  less  than 
nothing  in  the  face  of  this  great  creature  who 
walked  about  his  farm  doing  deeds  with  an 
unerring  hand. 

But  Adam  hardly  knew  what  he  was  thinking 
in  those  days  while  he  harnessed  himself  to  the 
needs  of  earth.  He  was  perhaps  not  thinking  at 
all.  Only  he  was  throbbingly  conscious  of  the 
spring  life  about  him,  like  the  god  Pan  set  to 
plow  furrows,  feeling  the  earth  riot  and  surge 
and  tremble,  and  yet  plowing,  and  plowing 
for  a  purpose,  and  not  even  willing  to  escape. 
He  said  very  little  to  old  Betsy;  but  she  set  his 
food  before  him,  and  made  the  house  a  miracle 
of  neatness.  Nobody  told  her  when  the  bride 
would  come.  Nobody  had  told  Adam  either, 
even  his  own  hot  purpose;  but  the  old  woman 
and  the  young  man  worked  together  with  equal 
paces  and  according  aim. 

All  this  time  Angelica  Payne,  growing  a  little 
paler  hour  by  hour,  sat  within  doors,  sewing. 


A  HERMIT  IN  ARCADIA         319 

Her  aunt  wondered  at  her,  because  an  errant 
will  had  always  taken  her  out  into  the  woods 
and  fields  at  any  interval  of  the  day  or  night. 
Melissa  was  worried,  and  begged  her  to  drive 
or  walk;  but  Angelica  denied  them  gently,  and 
sat  by  the  window  with  head  bowed  over  her 
seam. 

"  Now  what  you  want  to  make  so  many  things 
for.?"  said  her  comfortable  aunt.  "Trimmed 
to  the  nines,  too !  Anybody  'd  think  't  was  your 
settin'    out." 

One  night,  when  the  planting  was  all  done,  and 
the  year  was  still  between  promise  and  its  bloom, 
Adam  made  himself  very  clean,  and  started  out 
along  the  county  road.  Old  Betsy  watched  him 
away.  She  made  fantastic  gestures  at  his  back, 
translating  her  good-will ;  then  she  sat  down  on 
the  steps  and  thought  of  life,  —  chiefly  what  a 
big  baby  Adam  had  been,  and  what  a  freckled 
boy.  Betsy  was  happy.  She  often  said  she  had 
better  luck  than  most,  because  she  had  always 
lived  with  her  own  kind  of  folks. 

Adam  walked  along,  neither  fast  nor  slow; 
and  in  the  darkening  turn  of  the  road  where  the 
pines  meet  and  there  is  the  sound  of  running 
water,  he  saw  Angelica  Payne.  She  was  dressed 
in  white,  and  her  face  was  very  pale.  The  dusk 
was  thin  enough  for  him  to  see  how  black  and 
soft  her  eyes  were,  and  how  still  she  carried  her- 


320  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

self.  She  looked  like  a  bride,  and  a  great  ten- 
derness calmed  his  manner  toward  her.  She 
seemed  very  little  and  very  young,  something 
miraculously  accorded  him  to  protect  as  well  as 
to  adore.  She  walked  up  to  him,  and  he  took 
her  hands. 

"Did  you  come  to  meet  me.?"  he  asked  her 
gently. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Angelica.     "  I  came." 

Their  hearts  beat  quickly,  but  they  beat  with 
an  according  measure. 

"Should  you  be  ready  to  marry  me  by  to- 
morrow .?"  asked  Adam,  as  if  he  inquired  about 
the  weather. 

"Yes,"  said  Angelica,  like  one  speaking  out 
of  a  dream. 

"  Should  you  rather  I  'd  come  and  see  you  at 
the  house  a  few  times  first.?" 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Angelica,  "not  unless  you'd 
rather." 

"You  know  what  folks '11  say  about  me! 
They  '11  always  remember  I  was  queer,  and 
went  off  into  the  woods!" 

"Yes,"  said  Angelica.  She  was  leaning  her 
head  against  his  arm,  and  thinking  his  coat 
smelled  of  the  earth,  the  spring  earth  with  its 
imperious  promises. 

"They  may  say  I  could  n't  get  Melissa  after 
all!     Can  you  put  up  with  that.?" 


A  HERMIT  IN  ARCADIA         321 

"Not  get  Melissa?"  she  repeated  absently. 
"Poor  Melissa!" 

They  stood  silent,  the  dusk  sifting  down  about 
them.  Angelica,  in  a  flash,  recovered  her  old 
fire. 

"  Do  you  s'pose  you  're  going  to  make  me 
happy?"  she  asked  audaciously. 

The  silence  thrilled  like  unknown,  poignant 
speech.  Adam  was  meeting  his  hunger  for  her, 
his  certainty  of  having  found  something  which 
was  all  his  own. 

"I  don't  believe  I  care,"  said  he,  "whether  I 
do  or  not." 

Then  he  lifted  her  until  her  eyes  were  level 
with  his,  and  kissed  her  on  the  mouth. 


A  CROWN  OF  GOLD 


A  CROWN  OF  GOLD 

Mirabel  stood  in  the  kitchen  door,  on  an  April 
day,  waiting  for  her  husband  to  come  in  from 
the  barn,  where  he  had  been  unharnessing  after 
his  trip  to  town.  It  was  noon,  and  her  dinner- 
table,  in  exquisite  order,  stood  waiting  for  them. 
A  beef  soup  of  the  old-fashioned  kind,  with 
onions  and  dumplings,  bubbled  on  the  stove. 
Mirabel  knew  he  would  be  content.  Pleasure 
was  too  strong  a  word  for  anything  Harrison 
might  feel.  He  had  no  commendations  to  ex- 
press, more  than  a  sober  certainty  that  she  would 
do  things  as  perfectly  as  they  could  be  done. 
He  thought  exceedingly  well  of  Mirabel,  but 
there  was  no  throb  of  surprise  over  any  miracle 
she  could  offer  him  from  time  to  time.  She 
stood  there  on  the  doorsill,  swaying  from  one 
foot  to  the  other,  in  a  childish  way  she  had,  her 
face  half  smiling  in  a  quivering  response  to  the 
bright  spring  weather.  It  made  her  feel  quite 
strangely,  as  if  she  were  a  little  girl,  with  no 
tasks,  only  to  laugh  and  sit  in  the  sun.  Yet  she 
liked  her  work.  Only  there  was  a  part  of  her 
that  seemed  to  be  always  flying  abroad  over  the 
boughs,  or  singing  irresponsible  things,  like  the 


326  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

bluebirds,  now  in  their  nesting  fervor.  From 
the  sky  she  looked  down  at  her  blue  calico,  and 
wondered  if  it  were  becoming,  and  then  sighed 
impatiently  because  there  was  no  way  to  find 
out.  Mirabel  looked  quite  unlike  any  of  the 
girls  in  the  neighborhood,  or  any  girl  she  had 
ever  seen.  She  had  a  skin  so  delicate  that  the 
sun  seemed  to  scorch  it,  and  a  fine  drooping 
profile.  But  what  puzzled  her  most  was  that 
there  were  freckles  on  her  nose,  and  that  she 
had  thick,  heavy  hair,  bright  bronze-red  and  curl- 
ing passionately,  and  that  to  her  husband  none 
of  these  things  seemed  to  matter.  Sometimes 
when  she  went  into  a  room  all  by  herself,  and 
stood  in  front  of  the  glass  in  wild  self-scrutiny, 
it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  the  prettiest  neck 
and  chin  a  girl  ever  had,  and  her  hair  was  so 
glorious  to  her  that  she  caught  her  breath. 
After  such  a  meeting  with  herself  she  would  look 
at  Harrison  when  he  came  in  from  the  barn, 
and,  flushing  all  over  her  delicate  face,  wonder  if 
he  would  tell  her  how  pretty  she  was.  But  he 
never  told  her.  Not  once  in  all  their  courting 
days  had  he  mentioned  how  she  looked  to  him; 
and  they  had  begun  their  love-making  so  early 
that  there  had  been  hardly  time  for  other  men  to 
speak  of  it.  Sometimes  Mirabel  wondered  if  he 
took  her  looks  for  granted.  Sometimes,  with  a 
sorry  laugh,  she  wondered  if  he  thought  she  was 


A  CROWN  OF  GOLD  327 

really  too  hideous,  with  her  red  hair,  for  any- 
thing but  the  homely  uses  of  life,  and  if  it  was 
his  kindness  that  made  him  keep  that  silence 
toward  her.  He  was  coming  now  from  the 
barn,  a  straight,  tall-fellow  with  good  brown 
eyes  and  a  square  chin.  Mirabel  sped  in  to  the 
stove,  and  had  the  steaming  dinner  dished  up 
before  his  feet  could  touch  the  sill.  Harrison 
had  an  armful  of  packages.  He  laid  them  down 
on  the  kitchen  lounge,  swept  off  his  hat  with  one 
motion  of  his  hand,  and  with  the  other  began  to 
pump  into  the  basin  in  the  sink.  He  soused  his 
head  and  face,  and  came  up  dripping.  After  a 
scrub  at  the  towel  by  the  door,  he  turned  to 
Mirabel,  waiting  beside  her  plate. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you  all  right?" 

That  was  deep  affection.  Mirabel  knew  it, 
and  her  eyes  glowed.  But  she  answered  soberly, 
because  that  contented  him;  and  they  sat  down 
to  eat.  When  Harrison  had  dulled  the  edge 
of  appetite,  he  sat  back  and  sighed  with  satis- 
faction. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  who  do  you  s'pose  I  see  in 
the  post  office  waitin'  for  the  mail?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Lucy  Miles." 

In  spite  of  her  the  color  flew  up  into  Mirabel's 
telltale  skin.  She  felt  it  there,  and  chided  her- 
self for  it. 


328  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

*'  How  's  she  look  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  careful 
interest. 

"Young' as  ever.     Pretty,  too." 

"How  's  she  look,  Harrison.?"  said  Mirabel. 
"You  know  I  never  really  see  her." 

"  No,  she  was  visitin'  here  when  I  used  to  see 
so  much  of  her.  That 's  what  she  's  doin'  now. 
Goin'  to-morrer,  she  said." 

"How's  she  look.?"  Mirabel  repeated  the 
question  clearly,  and  turned  candid  eyes  on  him. 
She  had  no  reason  for  being  jealous  over  Lucy 
Miles.  If  Harrison  had  wanted  her,  she  had 
many  a  time  assured  herself,  he  might  have  had 
her.  But  Harrison  always  called  her  pretty, 
and  hearing  that,  Mirabel's  heart  ached  and  her 
lips  grew  mutinous. 

Harrison  was  speculating  over  her  question. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  at  length,  "I  guess  Lucy  's  a 
mighty  pretty  girl,  fur  as  looks  go.  She  's  got 
black  eyes  an'  black  hair  an'  a  good  skin,  an' 
she  's  straight  as  an  arrer.  Yes,  I  guess  there  's 
no  doubt  but  what  Lucy 's  pretty.   Got  any  pie  ?  " 

There  was  a  custard  pie,  warm  from  the  oven, 
and  Harrison  addressed  himself  to  it  with  a 
fervor  feminine  beauty  had  not  challenged  in 
him.  Mirabel  ate  a  little  of  the  brown  skin  on 
the  top  of  her  piece. 

"You  sick?"  inquired  Harrison,  seeing  it 
unfinished  on  her  plate. 


A  CROWN  OF  GOLD  329 

"  No,"  she  answered.     "  I  ain't  very  hungry." 

"  Give  it  to  me,  then."  He  ate  both  pieces, 
and  rose  with  another  sigh.  But  he  came  back 
from  the  door,  on  his  way  out  again,  hearing 
how  Mirabel's  step  lagged,  beating  back  and 
forth  from  table  to  pantry.  "  I  guess  you  ain't 
very  rugged  to-day,"  said  Harrison.  He  put  a 
big  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  Mirabel  bright- 
ened.   "I  'd  lay  down  a  spell." 

Her  spirits  came  back  in  a  dancing  troop. 
Her  face  dimpled  delightfully.  She  bent  her 
head,  and  dropped  a  kiss  on  his  sleeve. 

"No,"  she  said,  "no.  I  ain't  tired.  I  ain't 
ever  tired,  this  weather.     Only  I  got  thinkin'." 

"Well,"  said  Harrison  kindly,  and  went  on  to 
the  barn. 

The  days  when  Mirabel  got  thinking  were  not 
very  frequent;  but  she  was  conscious  all  the 
time  that  she  did  want  Harrison  to  like  her  looks. 
At  least,  she  longed  to  know  whether  he  did  or 
not.  It  was  partly  hunger  and  partly  curiosity, 
but  between  them  they  consumed  her. 

The  next  day  the  fever  was  still  upon  her,  and 
when,  in  the  morning,  he  told  her  he  was  going 
to  the  river  pasture,  fencing,  to  be  gone  all  day, 
she  was  glad.  She  could  wash  her  long  red 
hair,  and  then  coil  it  up  decently,  and  by  the 
time  he  came  home  be  ready  to  forget  it  and 
shake  herself  down  into  a  new  calmness.     It 


330  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

was  a  sweet  April  morning  with  the  warmth  of 
May.  Harrison  looked  at  her  almost  regret- 
fully as  she  ran  out  to  give  him  his  little  packet 
of  lunch,  where  he  sat  in  the  dingle  cart,  ready 
to  go. 

"I  'most  wish  you  was  comin',  too,"  he 
mused.  "Mebbe  'twould  be  kinder  damp, 
though,  settin'  round  outdoors  all  day  long." 

"  I  've  got  lots  to  do,"  said  Mirabel  gayly. 
"  Good-by.  I  '11  have  somethin'  for  supper 
'long  about  six." 

When  the  blue  cart  was  bobbing  away  down 
under  the  old  elm,  she  ceased  to  watch  it,  and 
ran  indoors,  because  she  meant  to  be  so  busy, 
and  the  outside  sweetness  tempted  her.  She  hur- 
ried through  her  tasks,  with  a  lick  and  a  promise, 
as  old  Aunt  Mag  used  to  say,  the  vagabond  aunt 
who  had  named  her,  and  then  got  out  the  little 
keeler,  and  into  a  bath  of  warm  suds  let  down 
her  long,  thick  hair.  It  was  a  hard  task  for  one 
pair  of  hands,  but  in  half  an  hour  she  was  sitting 
out  in  the  yard  in  the  full  flood  of  sunlight,  with 
the  hair  streaming  over  her  shoulders,  drying, 
and  curling  as  it  dried.  She  rubbed  it,  and 
played  with  it,  and  tossed  it  up  to  let  the  air  blow 
through  it ;  and  when  the  bronze-red  kinks,  like 
growing  things  all  alive,  were  clustering  over  her 
head,  she  still  sat  there,  holding  up  the  ends  of 
it  to  let  the  sunlight  in  again. 


A  CROWN  OF  GOLD  331 

"Good-morning,"  said  a  voice. 

Mirabel  gave  a  little  cry.  She  dropped  her 
hair,  and  parted  the  golden  fleece  to  look  at  him. 
She  knew  him  at  once.  He  was  the  man  who 
boarded  two  miles  away  on  the  Sudleigh  road, 
and  put  up  his  great  umbrella  in  the  midst  of 
meadows,  and  sat  there  painting  all  day  long. 
He  was  a  short,  stout  man,  with  a  grayish, 
pointed  beard,  and  eyes  set  very  far  under 
straggly  brows.  He  carried  the  umbrella, 
closed,  and  other  things  she  did  not  under- 
stand. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  he  again.  "  I  want  to 
paint  your  hair." 

Mirabel  gathered  it  about  [her,  this  time  like 
a  mantle.     She  said  nothing. 

He  was  opening  a  camp-stool,  and,  without 
looking  at  her,  he  kept  on  talking. 

"I  guess  you  can  give  me  a  sitting,  can't 
you  ?  Give  me  all  the  time  you  've  got  to-day. 
I  'm  going  away  to-morrow.  Wish  I  could  stay 
longer,  but  I  sail  Saturday.  I  did  n't  know 
there  was  such  hair  within  a  hundred  miles." 

She  half  rose  from  her  seat.  He  seemed  kind, 
and  also  irresistible,  but  she  felt  like  flying  into 
the  house,  and  doing  up  her  hair  tight  and  firm, 
and  not  looking  at  it  all  day  long. 

"Come!  come!"  said  he.  "I  can't  waste  a 
minute.    Infernal  fools,  not  to  tell  me  there  was 


332  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

hair  like  that" —  He  stopped  his  grumbhng, 
and  smiled  at  her. 

At  once  Mirabel  sat  down  in  her  chair,  and 
timidly  returned  the  smile. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "you  mustn't  be  afraid. 
You  would  n't  be  afraid  to  have  your  photo- 
graph taken,  now  would  you.^" 

"No,"  said  Mirabel,  almost  inaudibly. 

"  Well,  then !  I  only  want  to  make  a  picture 
of  your  hair.  Sit  still,  like  a  good  girl,  and  let 
me  do  it."  He  had  unstrapped  other  things. 
He  was  seated  before  her.  She  could  not  flee. 
But  her  face  quivered  a  little.  She  felt  as  if  she 
were  going  to  cry.  He  had  been  dabbing  colors 
on  his  palette,  and  now  he  leaned  back  and 
looked  at  her,  his  head  on  one  side.  She  felt 
her  chin  trembling. 

"That's  right,"  he  said.  "Part  it  a  little 
more  away  from  your  face.  That 's  good.  I 
want  you  to  seem  to  be  looking  through  it. 
There,  that 's  exactly  right."  Then  he  began 
to  work. 

Mirabel's  chin  shook  more  and  more,  but  he 
either  did  not  see  it  or  he  did  not  seem  to  mind. 
Suddenly  he  began  talking.  It  might  have  been 
to  himself,  though  it  sounded  partly  as  if  he 
were  reading  from  a  book. 

"  Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  little  girl,  and 
she  had  red  hair.     Why!"  —  he  glanced  at  her 


A  CROWN  OF  GOLD  333 

with  a  queer  surprise  in  his  Ufted  eyebrows,  — 
"  it  was  just  like  yours.  Is  n't  that  odd  ?  Well, 
she  went  to  school  with  other  girls,  and  none 
of  them  had  red  hair.  None  of  the  boys  had, 
except  one,  and  his  was  a  real  carroty  red,  and 
he  was  all  freckles.     On  his  hands,  too." 

"  Lester  Pritchard ! "  called  Mirabel.  "  How  'd 
you  know  ?  "  Her  voice  surprised  her,  it  was  so 
sharp  and  loud. 

"There  's  always  one  like  that,"  he  said. 
"Well,  the  girl  kept  on  growing  and  growing 
and  growing,  till  she  could  n't  grow  any  longer, 
because  she  was  grown  up.  And  her  hair  kept 
growing  and  growing  and  growing,  too,  and  it 
could  always  grow  longer  if  it  wanted  to;  but 
when  it  got  the  right  length  it  stopped.  But  it 
was  always  red  hair." 

Mirabel  was  watching  him  keenly  from  her 
glistening  covert. 

"And,"  he  said  abruptly,  "red  hair's  the 
prettiest  hair  there  is.  So  that 's  all  there  is  to 
that  story.     What 's  your  name?" 

She  could  answer  now,  though  she  would 
rather  have  stopped  to  think  over  the  conclusion 
of  the  story. 

"Mirabel  May,"  she  said.  "My  husband's 
name  is  Harrison  May." 

"Mirabel  May!  Who  gave  you  such  a  pretty 
name?" 


334  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

Mirabel  jumped  in  her  chair,  and  her  eyes 
gleamed  out  at  him.  She  began  to  talk  tumul- 
tuously.     The  barriers  were  down. 

"  Do  you  think  it 's  a  pretty  name  ?  My  aunt 
gave  it  to  me.  She  used  to  read  story  papers, 
an'  lay  'round  outdoors,  mother  said,  an'  she 
died  as  poor  as  a  rat.  Mother  said  they  all  said 
she  would  if  she  carried  on  so,  but  nothin'  would 
stop  her.  I  thought  maybe  't  was  a  funny 
name.  I  thought  maybe  my  hair  was  funny, 
too."  She  ceased,  aghast  at  her  own  boldness, 
and  gathered  her  hair  again  under  her  chin. 
The  stranger  was  smiling  at  her  kindly,  and 
pausing  with  his  brush  in  air. 

"Sit  still,"  he  said,  as  if  he  were  gentling 
a  horse.  "  I  '11  tell  you  another  story.  This  is 
the  story  of  the  picture  they  made  out  of  the  red 
hair.  Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  grown-up 
girl  that  had  red  hair.  She  looked  just  like  you. 
Maybe  it  was  you.  One  day  an  old  man  came 
limping  along  to  her  gate.  He  looked  just  like 
me.  Maybe  he  was  me.  *  Hullo!'  says  he  to 
himself.  *Here  's  a  girl  with  red  hair.'  So  he 
sat  down  and  painted  all  day  long,  and  the  girl 
sat  still,  very  still  —  don't  wiggle  'round  so. 
You  '11  hear  the  story  if  it 's  ever  finished,  and  I 
guess  it  will  be.  —  And  he  painted  all  he  could 
that  day,  and  took  the  picture  away  with  him, 
and  painted  some  more  as  he  remembered  it, 


A  CROWN  OF  GOLD  335 

and  he  called  the  picture  'A  Study  in  Red.' 
And  everybody  came  to  see  it,  and  they  all  said 
*  Oh,  my ! '  And  all  over  the  city  they  said  '  Oh, 
my ! '  for  two  weeks  by  the  clock,  till  the  painter 
had  to  pack  up  his  umbrella  and  his  canvas  and 
his  camp-stool  and  run  away,  because  he  was  so 
deafened  by  hearing  them  say  *Oh,  my!'  " 

Mirabel's  cheeks  were  blooming  rose  with  the 
wonder  of  the  hour.  She  forgot  Harrison.  She 
forgot  her  bread  rising.  She  forgot  everything 
that  had  once  belonged  to  her;  so  that  now  when 
the  cat  came  and  rubbed  against  her  skirt,  purr- 
ing and  setting  a  waving  tail  in  air,  she  looked 
down  as  if  it  were  an  alien  cat.  It  seemed  as  if 
this  April  day  had  been  the  one  she  had  waited 
for,  and  the  stranger  was  an  old  friend  come  back 
from  somewhere  to  talk  things  over.  She  be- 
gan to  talk  herself,  but  she  could  think  of  only 
two  things  to  say,  though  she  had  said  them 
once  already. 

"I  thought  maybe  my  name  was  funny." 

"Mirabel  May,"  he  repeated.  "No!  no! 
That  is  n't  funny.  It 's  nice.  Mistress  Mira- 
bel May!" 

"I  thought  maybe  my  hair  was  homely, 
too." 

He  smiled  at  her,  and  shook  his  head  over  his 
painting. 

"  No !  no ! "  he  said.    "  No !  no !    You  sit  still. 


336  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

and  maybe  I  '11  tell  you  another  story  about  that. 
Do  you  mind  the  sun  on  your  head?" 

"  No,  oh,  no,"  said  Mirabel,  in  a  vague  happi- 
ness.   "I  like  it." 

There  were  soft,  flying  clouds  in  the  sky. 
They  dappled  the  grass  with  shade.  The  birds 
were  very  busy  that  morning,  singing  and  weav- 
ing. The  road  was  quite  deserted.  Nobody 
went  to  market,  and  nobody  came  to  spend  the 
day.  .  More  and  more  it  seemed  to  Mirabel  that 
she  and  the  stranger  were  in  a  new  place,  where 
she  had  never  set  foot  before,  and  where  she 
liked  to  be. 

At  noon  he  laid  down  his  brush.  He  knew  it 
was  twelve  o'clock  by  his  hunger,  and  she  knew 
it  by  the  shadows  on  the  grass. 

"Well!"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction. 

"  I  '11  run  in  an'  cook  some  eggs,"  said  Mira- 
bel.    "Do  you  like  milk?" 

He  did.  His  smile  told  her.  At  the  door  she 
paused  and  looked  back  at  him  timidly.  "  Won't 
you  come  in,"  she  asked,  "and  rest?" 

"In  a  minute,"  said  the  stranger;  and  while 
she  cooked  the  eggs  he  walked  about  and 
stretched  himself,  smoking  a  short  black  pipe. 
When  the  meal  was  set  out,  she  called  him.  She 
had  put  up  her  hair,  and  it  crowned  her  heavily, 
so  that  she  carried  her  small  head  with  what 
looked  like  pride,  to  balance  it.     She  had  spread 


A  CROWN  OF  GOLD  337 

her  table  in  the  sitting-room,  with  the  best  pink 
lustre  and  the  big  cut-glass  preserve  dish  Aunt 
Mag  had  bought  once  with  money  she  had  taken 
to  town  to  get  shoes.  The  stranger  was  very 
hungry,  and  he  liked  everything;  but  Mirabel 
ate  only  a  little  bread  and  milk,  perhaps  because 
she  felt  so  solemn.  After  it  was  over  and  he  had 
gone  out  to  smoke  another  pipe,  she  left  her 
dishes  standing,  and  hastily  let  down  her  hair. 
Like  a  modest  handmaid,  she  appeared  before 
him  in  the  yard. 

"  You  want  me  to  sit  down  again  ?  "  she  asked, 
in  a  fervent  faithfulness. 

He  nodded,  and  they  took  their  places,  and 
that  afternoon  he  worked  in  silence.  When  the 
sun  was  low  he  looked  up  at  her  with  a  different 
smile,  as  if  they  had  both  been  in  the  picture 
together,  and  now  they  had  come  out  of  it. 

"  There,  child,"  he  said,  "  that  '11  do.  We  've 
done  all  we  can." 

"  Have  you  finished  it  ?  "  asked  Mirabel.  Her 
eyes  were  large  and  seeking.  She  was  very  pale. 
At  last  she  began  to  feel  how  stiff  she  was. 

"Come  and  look  at  it,"  said  the  stranger. 

She  went  timidly  round  to  his  side  and  looked. 
She  gazed  at  it  a  long  time,  and  then  she  took  up 
a  strand  of  her  hair  and  studied  that. 

"You  think  it's  pretty?"  she  asked  him. 
*i~     He  answered  gravely. 


338  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"  It 's  very  pretty,  Mirabel.  We  've  done  a 
good  day's  work." 

"You  satisfied?"  She  interrogated  him  like 
a  child. 

He  nodded,  again  gravely. 

"Yes,  I  'm  satisfied.  Now  I  must  pack  up 
my  traps." 

While  he  did  it  with  deft  hands,  she  stood 
absently  watching  him.  She  still  looked  pale, 
and  her  eyes  were  tired.  Glancing  at  her,  he 
hesitated.     His  hand  sought  his  pocket. 

"I  want"  —  he  began.  "I  know  you  '11  let 
me  give  you  a  little  remembrance  to "  — 

"No!  no!"  she  cried.  Her  voice  was  sharp 
with  protest.     "No,  I  couldn't." 

"  You  would  n't"  —  he  lifted  a  little  charm  on 
his  watch  chain  and  looked  at  it. 

"No,  no,"  said  Mirabel  again.  She  did  not 
know  how  to  tell  him  that  he  had  given  her 
already  everything  he  had  to  give. 

"Well."  He  considered  a  moment.  Then 
he  smiled  at  her  as  he  had  when  he  told  the 
stories.  "  I  know  what  I  '11  do,"  he  said  com- 
fortably. "  I  've  got  a  little  picture  of  the  Long 
Meadows  down  below  here,  —  with  the  willows 
by  the  edge.  You  'd  like  that.  Yes,  I  know 
you  would.  I  '11  send  it  to  you  to-morrow  when 
I  go.  And  thank  you,  Mirabel.  Thank  you." 
He  took  off  his  hat  and  stretched  out  his  hand. 


A  CROWN  OF  GOLD  339 

She  laid  hers  in  it,  and  smiled  gratefully  at  him. 
Then  he  picked  up  all  his  traps,  and  she  walked 
with  him  to  the  gate,  and  stood  there  watching 
him  as  he  went  away.  Once  he  turned  and 
smiled  at  her. 

"Good-by!"  she  called.  "Good-by!" 
When  Harrison  came  home  from  the  river 
pasture,  the  supper-table  was  ready  in  the  sit- 
ting-room, and  there  were  ham  and  eggs.  Mira- 
bel, her  hair  done  tidily  and  her  face  a  little 
pale  but  very  happy,  was  ready  to  pour  his  tea 
and  listen  to  his  story  of  the  day.  It  was 
not  until  he  had  finished  that  he  looked  about 
him  and  realized  the  festival  aspect  of  the  best 
china  and  the  table  spread  in  the  "company 
room." 

"What  makes  ye  eat  in  here .^"  he  asked,  not 

complainingly,  but  with  an  acquiescent  interest. 

Mirabel  did  not  answer  directly.     She  pushed 

back  her  plate,  and  leaned  her  white  arms  on 

the  table. 

"Harrison,"  said  she,  "there  was  somebody 
here  to-day.  He  wanted  to  make  a  picture  of 
my  hair.  He  said  't  was  no  worse  than  sittin' 
for  a  photograph." 

"Sho!"  said  Harrison.     "Where  is  it?" 
"The  picture .?     He  took  it  away  with  him." 
"  Was  it  that  feller  that 's  be'n  paintin'  down 
in  the  medder.?" 


340  THE  COUNTY  ROAD 

"Yes." 

"How  was  it?     Anything  like?" 

A  blush  burned  her  cheek. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  humbly.  " I  don't 
know  's  we  can  tell  how  we  look  ourselves." 

Harrison  chuckled. 

"Some  on  us  can,"  he  rejoined.  "There's 
Lucy  Miles.  She 's  peekin'  all  over  herself 
every  minute,  jes'  like  a  rooster  afore  he  crows. 
Jote  Freeman  spoke  on  't  last  town-meetin'  day. 
We  passed  her  when  we  were  drivin'  along  to 
the  schoolhouse.  *  Look  there,'  says  he.  '  See 
her  crook  her  neck  an'  ile  her  feathers.  Now, 
there's  your  woman,  Harrison,'  says  he;  'a 
handsomer  woman  never  stepped,  an'  she  don't 
know  it  no  more  'n  the  dead.'  " 

Mirabel  was  leaning  forward  over  her  plate. 
The  red  had  come  into  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes 
were  shining. 

"  Who  did  he  mean,  Harrison  ?  "  she  trembled. 
"Who'd  he  mean?" 

Harrison  gazed  at  her  in  slow  wonder. 

"Why,  I  told  ye,"  he  returned. 

"Was  it  me,  Harrison?" 

"Why,  yes.     Who'd  ye  think  it  was?" 

"What  did  you  say  to  him,  Harrison?"  she 
breathed.     "You  tell  me  what  you  said." 

"Why,  I  don't  rightly  remember  what  I  did 
say.  Come  to  think  of  it,  yes  I  do,  too.    *That  's 


A  CROWN  OF  GOLD  341 

the  way  with  them  real  high-steppers,'  says  I. 
'  They  don't  know  there  's  any  odds  between 
them  an'  anybody  else!'  Seems  queer."  He 
was  lighting  his  pipe  on  the  way  to  the  kitchen, 
and  he  paused  to  laugh  a  little. 

"What  seems  queer .^"  she  reminded  him, 
still  breathlessly. 

"The  way  things  go.  When  I  fust  begun 
to  shine  up  to  you,  mother  she  warned  me. 
'Harrison,'  says  she,  'she  's  a  handsome  crea- 
tur'.  You  dunno'  how  she'll  turn  out.'  *Yes,' 
says  I,  'she's  the  handsomest  creatur'  in  this 
county,  but  she  don't  care  no  more  about 
it'n  I  do.'  She  lived  to  see  I  was  right,  too. 
Where  's  the  strainer  pail  ?" 

Mirabel  flew  out  of  her  chair,  and  brought  the 
pail  to  him.  He  took  it,  and  she  clung  to  his 
arm  a  minute,  laughing  and  crying  together. 

"O  Harrison,"  she  said,  "ain't  it  wonder- 
ful?" 

He  stayed  a  moment,  to  stroke  her  hair  with 
his  clumsy  hand. 

"There,"  he  said  tenderly,  "I  guess  you  've 
done  too  much.     You  're  all  beat  out." 


EUctrotyPed  and  Printed  by  H .  O.  Hotighton  &»  Co. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


PARADISE 


By  ALICE  BROWN 


"Few  writers  of  fiction  have  equaled  Miss  Brown  in 
their  understanding  and  analysis  of  the  New  England 
character,  and  few  have  been  so  skillful  as  she  in  en- 
dowing the  creations  of  her  imagination  with  actual 
life."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

*^  Paradise  is  Miss  Brown's  best  novel  thus  far, 
strikingly  superior  in  merit  to  all  her  previous  sus- 
tained fiction,  on  a  level  throughout  —  this  is  high 
praise — with  the  best  of  her  admirable  short  stories. 
In  workmanship  it  is  cut  and  polished,  and  set  like  a 
jewel  worthy  to  be  the  pride  of  the  artist  and  the 
delight  of  the  beholder/'  —  New  York  Mail 


Crown  8vo,  %\,^o 


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MIFFLIN  i^fW  ^ND 

&  COMPANY  fellra  NEW  YORK 


The 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  PINES 

By  MARGARET  MORSE 


A  little  tragedy  enacted  amid  the  fragrance  of  piney 
woods  and  hill-tops  in  New  Hampshire  is  here  charm- 
ingly told.  It  is  a  love  story,  a  story  of  nature  and 
of  two  nature  lovers ;  of  a  man  and  woman  of  unusual 
temperaments,  ideals,  and  affinity. 
Miss  Morse  shows  herself  an" enthusiast  for  AmiePs 
Journal  and  for  the  Obermann  Letters,  so  highly 
praised  by  Matthew  Arnold.  In  some  ways  her  story 
may  recall  that  delightful  romance  **  Our  Lady  of  the 
Beeches,"  but  it  has  a  strong  individuality. 


i6mo,  $\joo 


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MIFFUN  X^?S^  ^^^ 

&  COMPANY  rcllra  NEW  YORK 


.JH^Wi.  U  IS. 


^-•"^rfrT-tf^ai 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 

STAMPED  BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 
50c  per  volume  after  the  third  day  overdue,  increasing 
to  $1.00  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  in 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 
expiration  of  loan  period. 


OCT  2   191S,r^- 

« 

Jiim  2  1920 

OCT  15  III, 

ncT  11 1940MI 


50m-7/16 


YB74-2 


